Tom and I had strolled toward the back of our acreage, hoping to spy the fawn we noticed a few days before. We walked the walk that has become our daily constitutional, checking the knoll of prairie grasses and natives, and the more recently planted grasses in a small plot just established this season.
Routines. They keep us grounded and focused and ordered in life. They give us an anchor when the wind shifts and the tide turns.
I wish I had not seen it; aghast when I did, crying softly “oh, no”, Tom, beside me in an instant, shocked and saddened at what we encountered.
That little fawn, hidden in the weeds just a few days before. lay dead in the grass, just its head and a leg. No mess. No blood. The remains of nature’s brutality. Obviously, my words of the fawn’s safety and lack of scent made no difference to whatever attacked it, most likely coyote.
Tom gentled me away, admonished me to stop looking, comforted me as we retraced our steps to the house.
It is a joy living so close to nature – except on days like this. Except on days like this.