Protection

We never had guns in the house.  My father did not fish nor did he hunt.  Foraging for me meant gently plucked field strawberries.  This teeny tiny variety took weeks to gather enough to fill the bottom of a pail, so it meant that berries never made it home.  A little practice and the right amount of pressure exerted between thumb and pointer finger ensured that the berry would not smash, but made it safely to the mouth.

 My experience with deer has been largely limited to the movie Bambi. When I was six years old, I stood in a long line with my Aunt Karen and cousins outside the theatre in downtown Portland and was instantly horrified by all the dangers in the forest, especially fire and hunters. 

Now I live on an island where hunting deer is against the law.  Deer are plentiful.  They are often in my yard, along the road or in the road.  All hours behind the wheel are spent with eyes darting to either shoulder of the road, prepared to break for unexpected leaping or crashing. When given warning, motorists can stop and just watch a succession of light-footed deer prance into the woods in search of tender green shoots and leaves that come with spring.

Late in the season, movement is a frenzied dance that becomes a fruitless wild parade from the pesky swarm of black flies.  Their escape into the woods is often swift.  This is no time to fumble with a camera, yet I am a fumbler.  It is rare that I am able to capture the beauty and grace of our local deer, but when I do, I remember, there are some places that they are protected.  Yes, I am grateful.