The Day of the Deer

It started small. Two hours earlier, I had dumped my usual daily ration of whole-kernel corn, an old aluminum 3-pound coffee can full, into the discarded tire I use as a deer feeder. As I wandered into the kitchen to begin dinner preparations, I saw two deer warily approaching the feeder. They had seen movement at the window, and were unsure whether it was safe; but I could see their noses working as they scented food, and shortly their heads were ears-deep in the tire.

Amused, I started my dinner preparations, pausing frequently to watch the pair pigging out. I actually became concerned, remembering the Game Warden had warned me that corn is not a natural deer food and those unaccustomed to it tend to bloat, even fatally. (Really? Around here, field corn is the main crop farmers, hunting camps, and the Game Commission itself plant. It’s more natural for the local deer to eat corn than acorns.) Finally, the two moved off, but only about twenty yards up the trail, where they lay down to digest their feast.

I’d barely turned from putting my dish in the oven, when I saw the next stage in the drama. A third deer had showed up, and the two original ones were up and confronting her over the feeder. “Our food!” “No one was eating it when I arrived. You two were bedded down in the woods.” There was a little jostling and head-tossing, then suddenly all three were peacefully sharing the feeder.

As I was smiling at this, two more deer caught my eye, headed for the salt block, another old tire across the driveway from the porch, less than thirty yards from my kitchen window. That made five, the most deer I usually see in my yard at once. These two were bigger and blockier than the other three, and I had little doubt I was looking at bucks this time. Who knows, one might be the 8-point that left one big, beautiful antler shed in the feeder last week.

Once in awhile one would come alert, perhaps feeling the weight of my gaze upon him, and meet my eyes through the glass. Despite the fact that they normally spook easily once the lights go on in the house, clearly showing my human features, they were undisturbed this magic evening.

Nor did it end there. My newly-plowed driveway proved the easiest place for them to walk. The next thing I knew, more deer showed up, drifting through the woods, taking the places of the bucks who sauntered along my driveway, ignoring my gaping face at the window five yards away. I did a quick count, then another, then another, as I spotted more deer. Some were nuzzling the feeder, a couple at the salt block, a few younger ones even frisking and playing. Their elders, those that had lived through at least one Pennsylvania winter before, did not waste their energy. They nibbled at the plowed areas for the grass that had been exposed, or pawed snow off the leaf-duff at the woods’ edge, searching for nuts, roots, and bulbs.

Twelve, I said to myself, straining my eyes in the rapidly-darkening twilight. The back yard was full of dark, moving shapes, the window light occasionally highlighting the white of a chest or rump. The snow provided an eerie backdrop to the dark ghosts, a moving photograph negative.

The oven timer went off, and Maggi showed up, asking if I’d seen the three deer in the front yard, gleaning seed from under the bird feeders. I almost laughed, wondering if they were part of the herd that gathered on the opposite side of the house, or if I could claim fifteen deer in my yard that snowy January evening.

As we ate, I could think only of the big, bulky wild creatures, moving silently, breath steaming, dark eyes alert in the gloaming. Unafraid, going about their normal lives, aware that I was observing them, but suspending their usual fear for a magic half-hour between day and night.