As I sit at my desk, I watch the does scale the stucco wall. Their leaps never fail to dazzle. Next, they stretch their necks to grab and eat the seed pods from the trees. Here, in the foothills of the Sandias, this sight wrings a sigh. Then I see him, outside the wall and to the left, watching the does. He is large but nearly hidden behind the tall Chamisa waving in the breeze. His head would be a prize to any hunter. His antlers tall and wide, many pointed. He steps away from the cover of the Chamisa. What I thought a waving branch— an arrow lodged in his left shoulder. He is the stag the neighbors have posted about— The one they say will eventually succumb to the wound. Reflexively, I rub my own left shoulder once frozen still from scar tissue until broken loose years ago by a medical procedure but now occasionally aches. How I wish I could help this buck. Remove the arrow, apply some healing balm, Let him recover here, feasting on seed pods, before sending him on his way only a scar to ache every once in awhile.
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Hearing The Mermaids Sing 