I used to want to be an Indian. This was because they got to wear moccasins and beaded belts and shoot arrows at cowboys. Oh, yeah and wear feathers. Eagle feathers. You had to catch the eagle first. Not so easy. In grammar school, my friends and I used to spy on each other. We wore sunglasses or Zorro masks, hooded sweatshirts and moccasins, and prided ourselves on walking like a brave. We tried not to snap a twig, as we tip-toed through the bushes around neighborhood houses at dusk. This was way before ninjas.
I could so have been shot. As stealthy as we were, we could have learned a lot from Bambi's kith. This fawn comes to our place early every morning, looking for tender shoots, or anything that we are trying hard to grow. The deer control agriculture in Port Townsend, the way the Mafia controls sanitation in Chicago.
But I mean who could be angry with such a dear, I mean deer. Dear deer.