WP won’t upload my photo of a deer under an oak tree, so you’ll just have to imagine it.
The world is a sea of abstractions, ideals, angers and joys, the terrible, enormous things, the juggernauts that I can do nothing to change. While at my feet, in my hand, are the tiny things that mark the rhythm of the day. I watch for the deer and the hare, anxious until I know they are still here, and listen for the war cry of the pheasants. I walk the meadows, and feel a surge of pleasure to find the tight rosettes of leaves that mean next year’s orchids are forming. Small things, but so important, as important as the crack of rifle shots and the small silent deaths that follow.
they emerge, the hunted—each
day a treasured gift.