Christ of the Ozarks

In the park the day before, as I released a particularly scrappy brook trout back into its pool, I overheard a passing hiker speak to his companion. "Geez, those fish are all so small. Why does he bother?" Why, indeed, pal? For the wind through the trees. For the clarity of rushing water and deep pools. For the look in the eye of a deer. For the brief link to an ancient past when a native brook trout takes my fly. And for the fragile satisfaction of the momentary illusion that I, too, actually belong here. Christ of the Ozarks* His robe has the chiseled clarity of my recurring dream the one where I'm always rappelling down the side of the mountain on an invisible rope, mouth open in wonder and horror, like Lazurus, just back from the dead; where I'm sleepwalking like Martha through my own party, juggling the covered dishes in my hands, sweeping up the wind again and again; where I'm left like Mary with nothing but the thick crust of sighs and tears, pale lids, eyes whose fixed stars blaze a trail nobody follows, one solitary as the sleeves that drape the arms the Ozark Christ stretches out, his hands sanguine as my recurring dream where I wake up different, the same new dawn rising bright red over my once-made-of-salt but now flesh and blood shoulder. *Christ ofthe Ozarks is a giant concrete statue on top ofa mountain outside Eureka Springs, Arkansas. —Llewellyn McKernan 52 ...