Yesterday afternoon when I looked out my kitchen window, I saw a deer running in the backwoods. I waited for the sound of gunshots, for the flash of orange as a hunter chased the deer. Neither came.
“Good,” I thought. My sympathies are always with the hunted, with animals that are often coldly referred to as prey. How terrible to have to run for your life, to know that death is not far behind.
We are halfway through hunting season. For me, and especially for the deer, the end of this season can’t come soon enough. Then, I can work in the backyard without fear of accidentally being shot. (This doesn’t happen often in Maine, but it has happened, most notably to a young mother with twins. She was shot dead in her own backyard as she tried to warn a hunter he was too close to her house.)
When hunting season ends, Clif, Liam, and I can walk in the cold woods—my favorite time of year to walk in them. I’ll bring my camera and take pictures of all the little things that catch my eye.
Fifteen more days to go.