Sally Ann Houston

It’s a cool morning near the brook, peaceful and new. The only sound is of rushing water. The graceful doe grazes quietly with her newborn fawn. Her fir glitters golden in the sunlight. The fawn dances playfully seemingly celebrating his birthday. There is joy in his dance. The joy of life.

Suddenly there is a harsh crack. Pain strikes the doe like lightning followed by the sound of thunder. The doe leaps up commanding her son to follow. Swiftly she glides. The young fawn tries to capture her gracefulness and speed. He does not notice the pain in her face or fear in her eyes. Blood trickles from her nose and mouth. Her steps falter. She is no longer graceful. Suddenly she collapses in a nearby stream. She struggles to the opposite bank and lies still. The blood is now gushing from her nose and mouth, running thin. Her fawn snuggles to her but she does not respond. He nudges her gently but she only shudders and turns cold. An Erie sadness fills the air and all nature is silent, weeping in the memory of the once beautiful doe.

The funeral ceremony is soon rudely interrupted by the snapping of twigs and the rustle of underbrush. The fawn senses the danger and fears for his life but he has not the heart to run anymore.

Then again the lightning strikes. The thunder echoes in his ears. The fawn leaps up, writhing in pain. He immediately collapses. A burning sensation fills him and all is silent once more… Happy birthday little one.