This Hunting Season

For the last few weeks, the hills around my home have been scoured by deer hunters.  Occasionally, I see one or two of the hunters—suspiciously bright orange dots slowly drifting down a far incline or atop a long rise.  I have heard rifle shots echoing through the juniper breaks.  Late each evening, though, I see collections of mule deer that have survived this far though hunting season calmly crossing the wide expanse of sun-washed grass in front of my house on their way to bed down for the night.

I cannot quite explain the feeling of ancient kinship I have for the deer, not the hunters.

--Mitchell Hegman