Late afternoon shards of sunlight shot like Robin Hood arrows into the dark fern-lined pool of the stream bed, illuminating a gift as I glided past.
A tiny spotted fawn, standing fragile ankle-deep in the spring-fed water, only an overhanging tree limb and some eight feet separating us.
I froze. So did she.
“Hello baby,” I said softly.
Lowering her head slightly, so our eyes could meet, we drank in the seldom encountered otherness.
A nearby rustle. Mother was getting impatient.
“Okay, baby. I’m going on, now. God go with you in your short life.”
Sitting around a table in someone’s lovely home last night, eight human adults seemingly all talking at once, I had trouble maintaining focus and being present with them.