I am a deer walking through a field of long grass, running my human fingers through the blades. Many years ago, perhaps two hundred years ago, when I was only human and very old, I also ran my fingers through the grass as if tousling the hair of mother and father, my children. In this story, my fingers are mother and father, my children, too and the grass is me. In this story, I said the field was long as memory, but it is longer than that. The future is far behind me, the past is in the distance ahead. In this story, the blades of grass are swords and my hooves bleed as I walk, cracking the sky like old jokes or antlers made of lightning.