Running Barefoot

by Amy Harmon

A bard is a poet,” he reported, his eyebrows again climbing in question as he looked up from the dictionary. “And that is what you are—a Navajo poet. Gifted with beautiful thoughts and the ability to share them,” I pontificated seriously. “You’re good at that, you know,” Samuel said quietly. ‘’Good at what?” “Making me feel special instead of like an outcast, making me feel important.” “You are important, Samuel,” I said sincerely.