Thieves would love this early morning. It is pitch black with the faint outline of the new moon peeking out of the clouds like a child peeking around the corner trying to catch a glimpse of Santa. Jack Frost seems to be extra playful today, sending clusters of ice crystals towards my face, making me cringe with each pelt. Each step is carefully placed, for the rocks on the ground are loose and slippery from the ice.
A single, bouncy beam of light illuminates the dark path, reflecting off the icy rocks. Side to side the beam goes, like an eager dog sniffing and straining to go farther, but being held back by his master. Occasionally, the beam reflects two pairs of eyes, mesmerized by the steady sound of boots treading the slick ground. My toes start to send shocks through my body when I step. Mr. Frost starts to laugh and with each exhale; a gust of wind blows back my hair. The morning walk to the deer stand is an adventure in itself. When I reach my final destination, the sun yawns and slowly rises out of his comfortable mountain bed. From the shelter of the deer stand, Jack can’t reach me, but he is persistent and shakes the stand. Soon, he gives up and only the ringing of my ears is heard. Rustling brush fills in the space the ringing once occupied. Trembling fills my body, not from the cold, but from the two pair of identical, thick black antlers making their way slowly toward the feeder. Buck fever. Two simple words that have so much meaning. Trembling like a tree, my palms turn into storm clouds, and my heart becomes like a drum picking up the beat to a rock and roll song. Suddenly, it all stops. My heart goes back to playing its regular song, my hands turn into the desert, and the tree stabilizes once the mighty beast reveals himself. With one pound of his mighty hoof and a great snort, all the deer in the area scatter for safety, shaking from the earthquake the hoof gave off from hitting the ground. Finally I see the handsome figure clearly ten points branch out of its light brown head, making a black halo around the celestial deer. It seems as if his muscles are chiseled out of stone by God himself, and his white tail wags back and forth like a dog ready to play. He rubs his mighty antlers against a young tree, and the young sapling’s branches are demolished under the force of his head. Pawing the ground, the giant feeds on the miniscule corn pieces. Once the master of the plains has had his share, he heads back into the tall grass he came from to return to his kingdom. Now that His Majesty has left, the peasants start to file back into the dining hall and feast themselves as if the king had never come.
As the sun climbs higher, I start to climb home. The thieves have been rehabilitated in the bright light of a new day whose winds now blew gently through the tall grass. I no longer carefully place my steps and the stomping no longer mesmerizes the small creatures, for their work has begun in the daylight. Mine, however, has come to an end.