Deer

 

Like ghosts, they inhabit the meadows of my mind.  Blending with the season, as gradually as shadows, they venture into the light, ready for flight, from the dark corners, into my sight.

 

Nature's original pruners, they keep the forest neat.  Then, lie under their self-made canopies to escape the heat of midsummer's day, only ears and tails to shoo flies and give them away.

 

Gentle forest foragers, red brown to gray, they roam the world over from night to day.  And who hasn't wondered at a buck in full rack, silhouetted against the sky, as he surveys his harem from on high.

 

And the innocence of fawns, covered in spots.  With doe eyes are on them as they frolic and play, unmindful of childhood's end, a short summer away.

 

When the wolf, bear, and big cats are gone, they proliferate.  And we, who now hold their fate, must act before it is too late.  Until we bring natural predators back; deer will die from starving, disease, and senseless attack, from man's best friend in vicious pack.

 

Or on the road, to the sound of shrieking tires and one dull thud.  It is ironic that Jack, who spent his life killing deer with a bow, should one early morning have them get back.  While swerving to avoid a deer on the road, he rolled his car and hit his head.  One instant he was going to hunt deer; the next, he was dead.

 

No one wants to kill Bambi or her parents; but when all is said and done, I for one, enjoy the stalk and the hunt, and the wild taste of venison.

Copyright 1998 © Ronald W. Hull

1/17/98



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