Deadfall in the Thicket
Thicket (noun): dense area of coverage where whitetail deer like to hide
Deadfall (noun): Branches and ground litter that serves as concealment when the hunter is on the ground
They gazed at each other across the thicket's expanse, littered with white snow and green branches. Neither betrayed any surprise at seeing the other. There was no chance to hide, so the doe turned to face him, and the young man stepped towards her from against the tree. She approached him warily, weaving a path through the shrubs and broken tree limbs. All the while she noticed the finer details about him: Red fleece vest, grey shirt, no quiver, no bow, no rifle sling. None that she could see, anyway. He held both hands in fists thrust deep into his vest pockets.
As she drew closer, the young man began to crouch, sinking ever closer to the ground but never sitting. His right hand began to withdraw from its pocket. His left hand remained in the vest. The doe stopped dead in her tracks, ten feet away from the man. Slowly, his hand opened.
Grain sifted out from in between his fingers. She could smell, even from this far away, its sweet and musty odor. Still in a crouch, he moved back a few feet from the fallen grain, watching to see what she would do. For a minute, she did nothing, just stood with her head lowered, looking straight into his eyes. Never taking her eyes off him, she stepped over to the pile.
Even as she nosed at the fallen grain, the doe eyed the man's left hand. There were no corners, no tell-tale shadows or wrinkles indicating a handle, nothing to suggest that an object other than a hand hid inside the vest pocket. It would have to be a small knife, she reasoned, and plus, if he wanted blood he could have had it by now, as she complacently pushed at the snow barely an arm's length from his crouching form.
And yet...
The grain on the snow was gone. The doe brushed the ground with her soft nose, stalling for time. The young man was patient, solid as a statue, holding out the cupped right hand and looking gently in her direction.
His left hand remained in the vest.
She kept her head down, her eyes on his feet and the ground in between them. Her right shoulder throbbed with an old, dull hurt her body had long forgotten but her mind had not. Flashing steel sliced through her thoughts. His eyes were serene and did not waver, but the gears behind them began to turn and calculate. He could feel her warm breath on his wrist. The compacted snow pressed tighter under her every deliberate step: crunch... crunch... crunch...
Her muzzle sank into the curve of his hand. The velvet of her lips drew the grain from his rough skin, and the doe fed.
Slowly, silently, the left pocket of his vest was emptied.
Deadfall (noun): Branches and ground litter that serves as concealment when the hunter is on the ground
They gazed at each other across the thicket's expanse, littered with white snow and green branches. Neither betrayed any surprise at seeing the other. There was no chance to hide, so the doe turned to face him, and the young man stepped towards her from against the tree. She approached him warily, weaving a path through the shrubs and broken tree limbs. All the while she noticed the finer details about him: Red fleece vest, grey shirt, no quiver, no bow, no rifle sling. None that she could see, anyway. He held both hands in fists thrust deep into his vest pockets.
As she drew closer, the young man began to crouch, sinking ever closer to the ground but never sitting. His right hand began to withdraw from its pocket. His left hand remained in the vest. The doe stopped dead in her tracks, ten feet away from the man. Slowly, his hand opened.
Grain sifted out from in between his fingers. She could smell, even from this far away, its sweet and musty odor. Still in a crouch, he moved back a few feet from the fallen grain, watching to see what she would do. For a minute, she did nothing, just stood with her head lowered, looking straight into his eyes. Never taking her eyes off him, she stepped over to the pile.
Even as she nosed at the fallen grain, the doe eyed the man's left hand. There were no corners, no tell-tale shadows or wrinkles indicating a handle, nothing to suggest that an object other than a hand hid inside the vest pocket. It would have to be a small knife, she reasoned, and plus, if he wanted blood he could have had it by now, as she complacently pushed at the snow barely an arm's length from his crouching form.
And yet...
The grain on the snow was gone. The doe brushed the ground with her soft nose, stalling for time. The young man was patient, solid as a statue, holding out the cupped right hand and looking gently in her direction.
His left hand remained in the vest.
She kept her head down, her eyes on his feet and the ground in between them. Her right shoulder throbbed with an old, dull hurt her body had long forgotten but her mind had not. Flashing steel sliced through her thoughts. His eyes were serene and did not waver, but the gears behind them began to turn and calculate. He could feel her warm breath on his wrist. The compacted snow pressed tighter under her every deliberate step: crunch... crunch... crunch...
Her muzzle sank into the curve of his hand. The velvet of her lips drew the grain from his rough skin, and the doe fed.
Slowly, silently, the left pocket of his vest was emptied.