Worthy Witness

The young doe had dreamy eyes and a thin frame as she nibbled on the tender plants outside the bunk house door.  I had finished arranging a pot of ferns with wildflowers with drooping pink cones in the center of a white circular table with green plastic chairs when our eyes locked through the curtained window.   I turned and reached for the Canon, and she was gone before the flash.

The bunk house had been built against the great retaining wall, in the midst of a hosta and fern garden with astilbe, wild roses and climbing hydrangea.   We would be three tonight, ages seven and eight and the age of wisdom.

Within minutes of the deer’s visit, giggling girls and their moms ran down the timber-framed steps with sleeping bags and pillows; suitcases rolling behind.  The hut was furnished with  army cots,table and chairs for crafts and cards, bookshelves, and a childlike refrigerator.  Outside a chiminea would soon be lit for toasting marshmallows; the perfect foil for storytelling.

It was near dusk when we changed into night-clothes and gathered our flashlights for a trip to the bathroom, topside.  We walked the mothers to their car and spent little time saying good nights; our thoughts on the sounds of the river, the hoot of the owl, the swish of the bats.  Nightfall.  All that was nocturnal awakened with it.  We hoped the skunk was far away and that our door and window latches held against the night’s predators.