Hidden

I watch her, the fawn. Her mother left her here, hidden in the pines and blackberry bushes. Only the tips of her ears are noticeable and to the untrained eye, she is invisible except for the movement she makes, when she hears a noise and flicks her ears. The doe needed nourishment, time to graze and forage, so she left the doe in this safe place. It was a safe place, until now. There was only me in my small trailer. The trailer has been here so long, it too is hidden, covered with vines as it is, with morning glory and honey suckle in the summer among the ivy and Virginia creeper.

There is no path to my front door, my only door, except of course for the trail the deer make. They don’t know about my strict rule–a new route every day–leave no track to my door. I watch the fawn. Her ears twitch. I look in the direction that she looks. Until this moment it has only been the squirrels that alarm her or a bird after a blackberry. She has no scent, but I do. That’s how I have been found out. The fawn’s ears twitch. She sees him. She remains still. He sniffs the air and heads in my direction.

(c) Glenda Kotchish

July 2021