deer heart

The day before I left Callahan, Ray shot a buck; here he is holding its heart. He said it was the buck he and I waited for the evening we hiked away from the cabins, he with his gun, me with binoculars I was awkward at carrying. I joked that the buck would be waiting for him the next morning by a certain tree; two days later, that’s where the buck was when he shot it. I saw him sitting on a stump peeling the flesh off its skull; he wanted to hang the antlers on the wall of his cabin. Ray. I don’t know why I want to remember the way water mixes with blood. The air whetting its images–that’s something I’ve never been able to see with a camera.

Those days in Callahan were so clear and bright; I felt like the top of my head was gone.