Thick fingers grasp a shovel, clutch a swinging pick, heft a rock-filled wheelbarrow— hands so big, when one is cupped upon my nose, thumb and pinkie touch each ear— on its backside, coarse dark hairs, roughened hide within— antithesis of mine. Within a softer crevice behind a gnarly knuckle, calloused hills on either side fold around a tender finger— a little fear, a little power, as the lion gently smiles. Other fingers join to hold a long and polished nail, a tiny member, trapped as prey, held huskily in fluted flesh, squeezed in muscular quiver, to comfort, crush, caress, according to his wish. My finger-weapon like a trainer’s chair, but better to entice— a large and sturdy paw, protects a weaker vessel, can handle softer life.