One could do worse than be a swinger of birches*

Ah, yes; one could do worse. One could be a randy buck, bent on leaving his markings, scraping his rack on a river birch.

We have had this problem before. One year, our Harry Lauder Walking Stick locked horns with a stately stag. The stag won. Old Harry Lauder is but a shell of himself these days.

Another year, not long about having its roots firmly set in the soil, a crabapple, commonly referred to here on the Cutoff as Kezzie’s tree, was the object of jousting during the rut.  Thankfully, it made it through the first winter and this year is covered in fruit.

It was a pleasant afternoon’s saunter to the mailbox that alerted me to the latest antler attack. The afternoon sun was glowing on the bark of the river birch, and a deep red haze appeared. It looked like blood.  Oh dear, thought I, the boys are out and about already, marking their territory, the Don Quixotes of Deerdom.

Tom, aka the antler man, quickly got out the stakes and fencing, protecting his own kingdom of trees.

So it goes, here on the Cutoff, as autumn takes a firm hold and the deer and the antelope play havoc on our wooded domain.

* From “Birches” by Robert Frost

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