Friday, June 14, 2019

Don't Get Me Wrong (A Fable)

It's the week of the fawns, that time of year when a doe will pause momentarily from her carefree life of card-playing, gossiping, and general patyourselfonthebackitude to have a child or two or (uncommon up here if it's normal anywhere) three.

I'm not sure about the birth of fawns because I've never seen it firsthand and I trust no one's experience except my own in recalling and retelling such events. But from what I can piece together from sources reliable in most other cases involving fascinating things, the doe will take a couple of minutes, have the child or children, clean them up, and move the newly-minted troupe along. A friend of mine once stopped his car in the middle of the road, having happened upon the scene, and waited the requisite three or four minutes until everyone was up and out of harm's way. I don't envy him that moment but it would not break my heart if I were there when a similar one arrived. 

It hasn't happened yet and may never occur, but this did:

On a cold, rainy day a couple Junes ago I was in camp, hanging next to the woodstove and trying to attain some semblance of proper human body temperature and even one dry sock (after all, one's better than none; something about redundancy of use or some guy who had no depth perception yet became king or something like all that anyway). I looked out and saw the scene that caused me to grab the camera and make the shaky, loud, blurry video which follows.

Moral: there's no one way to meet perfection.

-MJ


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