The Dark Buck

The Dark Buck
 
At dusk, my father and I
wind through the thick yupon,
find the remnants of deer paths,
and make our way, slowly to Fawn’s Creek.
 
We pass through the sweet gum
and the low pines and the
wild grapes until we stand
at the edge of a ridge
to gaze across the rivulet
to the far bank.
 
Suddenly, the sounds of hooves
echo in the woods, and a
dark buck leads a herd of deer,
at least seven does and fawns,
across the old lumber road.
 
He stops.  He doesn’t move a muscle.
His eyes pierce. His ears are twitching in alert.
He stares us down as if wondering
what kind of creatures we are.
 
Suddenly,  he bounds after the others,
his curiosity satisfied.
He knows we cannot follow.

The first year we had our farm, we saw many deer. My father and I saw the ones in this poem and The Dark Buck one evening at twilight.  We watched as he sized us up and then shook his head as if to say " you are just piddling little creatures and no threat."  On another occasion, I saw a younger buck who ran alongside me as I walked down the trail, then leaped across the rivulet and stood where an old logging road had created a break in the trees.  He shook his antlers from side to side, scraped the forest floor with his hoof and then raced away..  I made the comment to my father that I thought maybe the deer was saying "hello".  "No", my father said, " he was letting you know he was ready to fight"  I still like to think we made some kind of peaceful connection if only to satisfy his curiosity.