Shot fell about us with a sound of beating hooves, a bursting heart each almost sounded, rocks by thousands falling from the skies. And yet not a feather struck us. We walked tall, free of fear, the mountain now behind us, our clothes soaked only, and our skins now clean and bright.
I had become as Job, though without sores. I had become as Lot, though without wife. For when I turned back there was no Samantha on the trail with me. Only a fruit tree bearing woodbine out of season. The sun had risen up. All rain and clouds were gone, as was all hail to see. I stood looking at the lone invasive tree. I touched fruit skin. I dared to pick it. All seemed given to be Lord God’s final gift to me, the final words of love breathed from the Dealer.
I did not want.
–Brian Kubarycz, from “Over The Mountain”