The fog and blood have left us, yet I cannot wipe them from my eyes. They seep from me, the remains of massacres. The shots echo in the valley still. If only I could shed tears as pure and clear as those of this solitary prospector who mourns his lost love, Love for God’s sake mourned, at his rough-hewn table. If I could shed tears like those, then perhaps my grief would not sicken me so. Bathed in such tears, I would have the strength to cut out my own half-frozen heart, dripping in the blood of a caribou, & hand it to the Lord, if there was such a Lord and He would have such a heart.
