What you don’t see is the long trail down to the water – heat pressing on my back, the resin-sweet scent of pines. Anticipation of finding the river on a hot day. The small joy of family exploring, the slow kindness of pausing for a dog’s sore paws – cold current a balm against his ache. What you don’t see is the young buck that sprang across the river behind me so quick I questioned my own eyes. The gurgle of water, the scramble of hooves on slick rock, a flash of white –the

Stark lines against an azure sky -- weathered, worn. Echoes of betrayal, sounds of joy whispered in frail, splintery wood. Shades of a life scratched in hard soil. Beautifully worn, patiently waiting -- sharply pointing heavenward, toward hope and forgiveness.