The Stag

The Stag

Close to our lakeside cabin
is a haven for wildlife.
We see the hoof prints of deer,
the pressed grass where they have slept.
We hear their snorts and the sound
of branches breaking as they
saunter through the underbrush.
Sometimes, we encounter them.

A stag became ensnared by rope
that marked our property line.
This majestic whitetail deer,
two hundred pounds of pure muscle,
thrown down, unable to rise.
What a game hunter might call
a sure, twelve-point trophy buck;
I didn't want a trophy.

His struggles against the rope
proved to be of no avail.
He lay still, aprehensive.
I placed my hand on his flank
and looked into his wild eyes --
trust and understanding were
mutually recognized.
Cautiously, I drew my knife
and severed his rope restraint.

He didn't try to move.
He lay still, his flank trembling,
pulse racing beneath my fingers.
I was in direct contact
with the life force of his being.
I spoke softly and gently
reassuring him with words.
I pulled on the severed rope.
He rose and bounded away.