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