encountering a deer

have you ever placed your hand on a breathing body of a deer on an otherwise perfect path, broken only by the sight of its beautiful body that should have been running away from you, but there instead, lying warm and heavily breathing its lasts?  it is a beautiful creature, the deer, a gentle untamed-ness reminiscent of cool breeze on a night when there are no stars and a version of your self holds the hand of someone dear--no, not a lover yet--while the both of you find your way in the fallen woods through the forbidden part of camp. a brook can be heard from somewhere and a new moon promising.  the deer has eyes like pools that when you closely look you can only closely look at yourself.  what drives men to cut their heads and adorn walls with their decapitated gentleness?  how the deer's antlers remind you of roses' thorns trying to protect itself, in good faith.  when the heartbeat under your palm slows down into a gradual stop, the woods would feel darker.  there would be no birds.  and sometimes no matter the brook, the new moon, the perfect path, the someone dear close to you, the world becomes a colder, less gentle place on your way back to camp.