Blue Mountain Sunday

In the high tarnish of Indian Summer twelve deer wait in Eagle Nest meadow for a man to come out of the barn. Slowly, a pail in each arm, he approaches the deer. His white T-shirt doesn't frighten them. They don't know his name, but he is theirs in the way the woods and sky are theirs. No harm comes from his quick hard hands. He tips the first bucket over the silvery morning grass and pours sweet oats gold as sunlight where the deer gather. They bow and give way for him to empty the second pail. Two bucks their young horns soft as fingers prod each other while they wait. A fawn nudges his mother, eager for her nod: eat, eat. The deer lower their heads, praise the day, praise their man in silence.