This morning as I sat at my desk to begin work on the play adaptation, I happened to look out my window which has a great view of the woods surrounding most of my house. To my astonishment, a yearling was lying down right beside the window and was peering in at me with its shiny, liquid brown eyes. It made no attempt to rise, instead just intermittently chewed and watched. Deer really have the most amazing eyes; they're so alive and full of intelligence. Of course, its coat had lost its spots and the rich tan color of summer was succumbing to the tufted heavier grey coat they get in winter.
As I watched I began to fear it was injured and, if so, exactly what I should do. Was protocol to call the local police, or the state park warden, or the guy who patrols the area to make sure no one is illegally hunting on people's land or using the wrong implements. (Bow and arrow season has commenced in PA, and in a few week the musket season will start.) Certainly, unlike my friend Colleen who was adopted by a fawn two years ago whom she called Tinkerbell and who's still a pet, I didn't want to have to care for an injured deer.
In any event, the yearling must have guessed my dilemma because, with a last stare, it rose and sauntered over to inspect the withering ornamental grasses.
[technorati: deer, Pennsylvania, Fall, hunters]