My left leg slightly limping, I pass through an unseasonably warm March evening looking over my shoulder for foxes. I feel like easy prey. From afar the skilled hunter can tell that I am weakened. That a misstep on my part could mean a feast for them. I pass through the night an easy target. Fumble for my keys. Awkwardly shuffle into the car, hoisting my left leg up. An evening with only psychological incident.
I watched that baby deer from close to birth. Watched her mother lick cowlicks onto her forehead. Saw the white spots on her back spread and multiple. Championed her when she timidly leapt over the little path of water, too small to be called a creek, that divided the yard. And I looked on helpless, when she, still a fawn, injured her leg. Lagged behind her mother, her siblings. Became the un-fittest. At that time I was still hopeful. Wasn’t looking for foxes or birds of carrion. Didn’t recognize the implications of her wound.
*painting, The Wounded Deer by Frida Kahlo