The Woods

I was out in the woods over the weekend. Deer season. Arrived before first light. I climbed into my tree, had a cup of coffee and stared up at the stars, listened to coyotes howl about half a mile away and deer move cautiously on dry leaves.

As the stars melted into morning, Venus was the last to give up her light. And soon, the blackness turned to gray then to full color as the sun rose higher in the sky.

Two does, startled by something I could not see, passed directly in front of my stand. Running, ducking under branches, escaping. I let them pass. A fawn was following, confused, and got separated from the two. Hopefully, they found each other again.

That was the end of my deer sightings in the woods that day. The weather was too warm, too windy for deer to move well. But it didn't matter. For seven hours, maybe eight, I was at one with the woods, with nature, with the great outdoors, and nothing else mattered. The real meaning of deer season.