Little Museums (heartgut) wrote,
Little Museums

Where the deer bed down

I skipped my 6-9PM class on Thursday so that I could do at least SOMETHING enjoyable for my birthday. Steve and I loaded up on delectables from Deepam’s deli case, and blasted out through country roads to the oak barrens. The radio was broadcasting a steady stream of weather reports—tornadoes were striking in the northern part of the “listening area”, and the sky over the wide, open fields was dramatically vacillating between ecstatic sunshine and fat, dark clouds—rain would smack against the windshield for a few seconds, then evaporate. The sky would light up, the car would get hot, and the windows would go back down. Wind and sun would fill the car, the radio announcers would rattle off counties—still far enough north to keep driving, but not far enough north to trim off the edge of danger.

We parked by the sand dunes and trekked out along deer paths to my favorite spot—along a corner of pines planted as a Depression era public works project, on the edge of a tall grass prairie. White tail deer bed down in the soft needles that line the ground under the pines, and it’s no wonder why: it is beautiful and safe in this place, the air is calm, the ground is dry; it is private and sun-warmed.

This is where we feasted on our North Indian deli picnic, where we both laid down to listen to the birds and amorous frogs until the sunlight began to fade and the air chilled.

Home again, home again. The storms had been forgotten, but we had our reminder driving north toward a sooty sky. They were heading west, though, not toward us; at home, the animals were still ranging about, dogs loping through the yard, cats guarding the chickens. I stood on the dock watching the shadows of catfish moving just below the surface in the murky water, and something seemed important about both the divide between our two worlds and the illusory contact.

The barn cat came out and watched them with me.
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