by Tim Westover
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The night saw him through, although what happened out there in its completion beyond his log walls, he could not entirely know. But he knew of the calming tones of the great horned owl and the curious, scratching paws of hungry raccoons against the logs. He knew of the strange gawking and squawking night birds. All comforting sounds ushering sleep, sleep. Spiderwebs catching diamonds in the moonlight. A spastic ruffling of feathers and breast under a furry paw and ghostlike eyes. Small claws scurrying up branches. The wind, sent from several fronts by a vengeful general, his eyes mad red. Above the canopy, constellations which glimmer in their triumph over men. The woods were all of that separate, and all of that at once. And then separate again. The wholeness was overwhelming, and when he thought his mind and heart couldn’t take it anymore, he drifted off.
He drove to the deer stand at sunrise, catching a glimpse of a coyote before it disappeared into a grove of aspen.
As he climbed the deer stand, thunder shook the tree. Jansen hadn’t heard it this bad since his trip to Yellowstone. The sky ruptured, sending lightning down to hapless trees miles to the west. Rain pelted the droopy, inundated leaves. Jansen put on his poncho and groaned. A twig snapped, followed by rumbling and a gust of crisp air. A doe bounded into view, her mouth open as she sucked air. She stopped, raised her hooves, and lowered them in place, kicking up soaked pine needles and sand. She stared east, twitched her ears, ran in that direction, and halted once more. Jansen gazed at the doe, waiting for her to show her right flank. She did, and he saw the mark, same as the others. He didn’t want to fire, but his hunger screamed at him to pull the trigger.
The doe ran ten yards and collapsed. As he field-dressed the animal, the rain stopped, replaced by his tears. What the hell is wrong with me? he wondered.