“And the Lord saith unto Satan, Behold, all that he hath is in thine hand now”
Beware the trust of the Lord: the snout cast down, deadened eyes back in their slits—my father lifts the twisted neck by the antler rack. This picture was the last: and, perched on the tailgate, a grin for the flash, he commemorates the body: whole, with its skin tight over muscled flesh. Held by its joints, deer skinned and strung from the apple tree—we ate the dark meat. Years from this, the tongue of the tree-stand angled, snapped. My father fell, splintered his spine. Buried by leaves, he prayed for mercy, for an answer, a sign: the voice from that whirlwind, God gave His reason: Who gave birth to the hoarfrost of heaven? And from whose womb did the ice come forth?