I happened to glance out the window yesterday afternoon and noticed a something moving in the middle of the yard.
It’s always a treat to see a fawn.
And as I came around the corner of the house with the camera, I saw that there was not only one.
Where’s your mother?
I looked but could see no mother hovering nearby. I knew she had to be around, though. Well, I hoped she was, anyway.
Early this morning I saw them again, the children of the doe. Only this time she was there with them. They must feel safe up here on the hill.
I love the way the doe knows how to go
through the tall brambles: She ambles
her hips first to one side,
then another; tosses her nose high
to sniff the trails of air; and
proffers only a passing glance to
the chickadee on his slanted
branch. She knows the way;
she knows the turn of a hoof print
here, to the right of the wild rose brier;
there, past the tip of the raspberry twig;
she knows the sun even before
his fine arced dome appears
on the eastern horizon, and
she goes that way,
into the still of the dew
into the hills of the morning
in through that path between the thorns
that is so hard for us to see.
~Pat Campbell Carlson
Hope your weekend is a pleasant one.