A Doe Group Walks the Yard
My
rhododendrons do not bloom, though they have grown five years in my yard. They are not as advertised: “Henry’s Red, a hardy rhododendron with plump
buds, and promising fifteen individual flowers to each cluster.”
The promise
has not been kept. I have not seen one
red bloom. Not one. The plump buds disappear before any flowers
come. It’s a mystery but I suspect I
know the answer.
To test my
theory, I sit at my living room window, looking out over the front garden. There are no interior lights on and nothing
except the window screen between me and the rising darkness. I watch and wait. The dark throws layers of shadow over the
lawn. I can taste the cool air and hear
the robins singing a welcome to the evening.
I am silent, still, waiting.
Shadows stretch and deepen, as charcoal silk spreads over the grass and
gardens.
I sense
something; movement? It’s a perception
behind my eyes, a knowing, just before my eyes can focus. Then a ripple of movement; shadow upon shadow
on careful, quiet legs. She stops and
looks, searching before leading her family down the hill. They keep near the edge of the street,
travelling mute over the grass. Their
split toes soundless and delicate like a lover’s touch. Silent, they glide in and out of the deeper
shadows cast by the trees and the neighbour’s house.
Close now,
she stops, head up, neck straight, brown ears scoping side to side. Does she see me, sense me in the window? I hold my breath; turn to stone.
She decides
all is well and brings her two yearlings with her, stepping out of the shadow
of the maple, stepping nearer. Careful,
watchful, hungry. The doe is full,
budding ripe herself, soon to birth new life.
I intended
to frighten them away but cannot. I
cannot take my eyes from their brown velvet skin, their long lashes, their
eyes, round and full and deep. I watch
them bend and nibble; their lips and teeth like a surgeon’s fingers, taking
what they want and no more. What they
want are the buds on my rhododendrons.
I should
startle them, make a noise, and wave my arms.
If I did, the pregnant mother would straighten and stamp her split hoof,
snort a warning and all three would bound away, white tails raised. I should but I don’t. Something stops me. I only sit and watch. I cannot stop staring.
They step
away from the garden and fade, shadows upon shadows as they melt through the
yard to another neighbour’s house, to his pond for a drink. When they are still, I cannot see them even
though I know they are there. They are
part of the darkness. Only in movement
are they revealed.
The three
deer have gone now, up through the mulch at the edge of the driveway, stopping
to snack on the green shoots on the yews, eat bits of new grass. They cross the street to another yard, searching
out other treats before returning to the sheltering woods at the top of the
hill.
My mystery is
solved.
I stared into
her face. She stared into mine. I didn’t
move or shout; she didn’t bolt. In that
moment, a kind of blessing passed between us, mute and tender and real. My rhododendrons have no blooms, but another
form of beauty is walking my yard at dusk and dawn.
The words and photo are copyright ©Carol Steel.
