from the bridge

Oxford, PA

Yesterday I found something Heather wrote about stopping to look at the streams we cross...

So we've stopped at the streams. Some of them can amaze me, deep pools so clear you can see the bottom as though through a lens, some without a single ripple, shot through with sunlight, fish hanging motionless in the clear water.

The other day we stopped at a stream and looked up along its length, out of the loud rubbish-strewn world of the road into the green shadows of the woods. "Deer!" I said. And there they were, almost beyond sight they were so far and small; blurred phantoms of deer, moving as though in a dream... A doe moved slowly out into the water, drinking, her fawn following; two half-grown bucks lowered their heads to each other and began to spar, slowly, meandering back and forth, their movements seeming gentle in the distance and the dimness. How can I explain it? They were beautiful. They were more beautiful than any deer I've seen up close; probably more beautiful than any deer could be, seen up close. I think they were beautiful because they didn't know we were there.