I'm sorry I disturbed your suppers. It's just that your eating time was my walking home time. For the record, I tried to tread lightly, silently, on the path, but you always knew I was there. You watched my every move with your enormous brown eyes. You were full of mystery and stillnes in the dim light. Every evening I hoped I could slip past you without notice. Not a chance.
Please forgive me if I frightened you. Do you know you frightened me too? Especially you with the rack of antlers, who stared me down on the path. And you, the mama who stamped at me one morning. Twice. Were you warning me not to come any closer? In the end, you all ran when I kept walking. If I had stopped for you every time, it would have been too dark to see my steps by the time I got home. My sincere apologies for whatever you thought of me.
. I learned that you come out to feed at dawn and dusk, that you go into hiding across noon and midnight, never fully sleeping, always aware of your surroundings, that you rarely bed down twice in the same place, so as not to tip off your predators. You're very clever. I admire that.
Do you know you have no predators on the island? Except for the island authority birth control intervention, that is. I'm sorry about that, too, even if I understand why it's necessary. It's for your own good health, you know. I counted twenty-six of you on one evening walk, a distance of one mile. Your white tails floated above the marsh grass when you bounded off. You are fast. I hope you know how beautiful and mysterious I think you are.
Thank you for letting me pass your way.
dkm
