The Stag

by TERRI KIRBY ERICKSON

It was in a fog like this one, 
early morning, when a stag 
high-stepped his way through 
our backyard, his antlers so 
large you could hang a universe 
from every tine. His rump faced
the house but when he turned 
his head, we could see the dark 
pool of one prey-placed eye, 
hear rhythmic snorts of sodden 
air as he made his way to the 
woods. He didn’t look real, this 
giant beast that dwarfed every 
living thing around it, yet was 
part of it all—the wet grass, the 
great gray sky, the fog slowly
lifting from the ground like 
a threadbare bedsheet, wafer-
thin from a thousand washings. 
No matter that the trees were 
full of deer stands, the streets 
around them rife with speeding 
cars. He was chasing a doe, 
her dainty tracks urine-scented—
her tail flat against her quivering 
body as she crashed through 
the underbrush, bleating.