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David

David 214 Anglican Theological Review 104(2) King of my father’s sheep at 10 years old, fierce as I was small, flush with his trust, I ruled the hills. Every tool a boy could need, I made: staff, slingshot, harp. On a cold night, I burrowed in between two woolly backs and bedded down. Urah—wake up! something inside me rang. rolling onto my back, I stretched into a sky that curved over my hilltop like a crown. I was the first man, just formed from the earth, and singled out to see. stars, a flock of them, a flock of flocks of stars crowded overhead, milled, butted, baaed, spilling across a gigantic pasture, tens of thousands, mine to count and bring in to the fold. stars with stories I could almost hear. souls in alliances, in tangled knots, straying or locking horns, mingling colors and strengths—steadfast as Jonathan would be, fickle as saul, blazing as Bathsheba. staring hard, I began to catch the dip, slide, circle, contours they followed through the sky and hear what drove them on. There— underlying music. On a harp larger than my mind could hold, horizon to horizon and beyond, someone was herding chords, Poetry 215 http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Anglican Theological Review SAGE

David

Zimet, Kristin Camita
Anglican Theological Review , Volume 104 (2): 1 – Jun 7, 2022
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Publisher
SAGE
Copyright
© The Author(s) 2021
ISSN
0003-3286
eISSN
2163-6214
DOI
10.1177/00033286221096517b
Publisher site
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Abstract

214 Anglican Theological Review 104(2) King of my father’s sheep at 10 years old, fierce as I was small, flush with his trust, I ruled the hills. Every tool a boy could need, I made: staff, slingshot, harp. On a cold night, I burrowed in between two woolly backs and bedded down. Urah—wake up! something inside me rang. rolling onto my back, I stretched into a sky that curved over my hilltop like a crown. I was the first man, just formed from the earth, and singled out to see. stars, a flock of them, a flock of flocks of stars crowded overhead, milled, butted, baaed, spilling across a gigantic pasture, tens of thousands, mine to count and bring in to the fold. stars with stories I could almost hear. souls in alliances, in tangled knots, straying or locking horns, mingling colors and strengths—steadfast as Jonathan would be, fickle as saul, blazing as Bathsheba. staring hard, I began to catch the dip, slide, circle, contours they followed through the sky and hear what drove them on. There— underlying music. On a harp larger than my mind could hold, horizon to horizon and beyond, someone was herding chords, Poetry 215

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Anglican Theological Review – SAGE

Published: Jun 7, 2022

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