Two deer heads forming a heart

The rain has finally stopped on the north ridge, and the herd came down to the fence line again this morning, two of them: the old buck with the broken crown and the young doe who won't leave his side. You told me when you left that the deer would be gone by now, the way the grain was. You were wrong about that, and I'm glad.

I took the seed ledger out and sat on the upturned crate by the gate, and they came close enough that I could hear them breathing. Their noses touched, the way they do when they are deciding whether to trust something. Against the grey hill the shape they made was so exact that I laughed out loud, and the doe flicked an ear at me as if I had interrupted. Mother would have called it a sign. I think it is just what happens when two animals stand still long enough to look at each other.

The station council wants the north pasture cleared for the second planting in spring. Ivo has the survey drawn up, and the line runs straight through the hollow where the herd sleeps. I've told him I will walk the boundary myself with the stakes and mark the hollow as a no-cut zone. He said that would cost us forty rows. I said I would count the rows if he would count the deer.

I'll write again when the stakes are in. If the buck is still at the fence, I'll send a photograph, though the lens never quite catches the way they lean together. Keep the lamp lit on your side.

Your sister, Ines