There are seven deer in the backyard, as the sun begins to set. He stands on the edge of the bathtub and I can hear the steady click of his camera and I stand at the kitchen sink watching them pulling on the grass. There are three big ones, and four little ones, the two closest to me must be twins, I think, the female is smaller, and is munching on birdseed, the nob headed, black kneed male is only slightly larger, and she is so comfortable with him, he has his head under her front legs trying to get the seed that falls as she eats. Eventually the three big ones leave and then that male, the littlest of the three, cavorts around the yard, jumping, leaping, bowing and running in circles.
In the morning there are three again in the yard, the big doe looks at me as I stand in the glass of the back door. I open it, she sees me, hears me, you better go I tell her, and the dog pulling at his collar which is firmly in my hands is barking like crazy. She stands still, but I let him go and he runs up after them, even in his aching old man state. He and I wander around the back yard crisp with frost.
Its cold, and I am sorry I don’t have a warm sweater on, or a thicker skirt, my breath is heavy in the morning air. The weather man said a year ago today it was 80 degrees. We lost a lot of fruit with that early heat wave, blossoms froze a week later, and again two weeks after that whatever remained was gone. People complain, including me, about the sleet and icey snow the kind that freezes hard when it hits the wet surface of a windshield, or a bridge, but I prefer fruit to a hot March.