When he rose, maybe 100 feet uphill of me, I was on my knees in the dusty trail. My small hiking journal teetered on my knees as my hand flew across the pages. Scrawled words in fuzzy grey pencil somehow formed into meaning. A truth: words sometimes had to be captured before they escaped. When my hand stilled and my mind returned to the surroundings, I thought it an unusual place for a deer to have lain. I watched as the young buck with his small four point antlers, still in velvet, nosed about. Odd. He did not browse. He…
