Deer Crossing

The following happened on Christmas Eve night in 2019, but seems an appropriate Good Friday post.

I almost hit a deer tonight on my way up from Tulsa, a majestic, already injured buck, alone, hobbling across the road in the black past midnight of Christmas morning. He had a huge rack, massive shoulders and flanks, looked vitally strong, yet was wounded, perhaps more mortally than I knew, while crossing both sides of an interstate highway that cuts across the star-flung prairie. The contrast of his strength made weakness, the juxtaposition of his beautiful sacrifice against the desolate landscape—and I’m sure my own near-miss at nearly becoming a part of his sacrifice—touched me deeply. I couldn’t shake his sad, stoic profile from my mind, his steaming gasps lit up in swirls by my headlights.

Upon arriving at my hotel room later that night, all of the room number placards had an image next to them. Mine was a deer crossing symbol with the silhouette of a buck on it.