The White Stag

He walks among the leaves, intentionally dragging his hooves to hear the gold swish around his legs. He’s looking for something, but then again, don't they all? They look for food in the fall, searching as if it’s already winter. They wonder if they can store it up as the squirrels and chipmunks do, but it’s impossible. With their antlers they can’t cut the grass, and if they could, how would they carry it to the store house?

But He searches for something else. He looks here and there, ears pricked against the wind and nose sniffing the grass.

His face is white. Indeed, his whole coat is turning white. White hairs poke through the brown as if He were a fawn again. He doesn’t associate with his kind. He is apart, both in color and attitude. Indeed, He is the one they call the White Stag, but he is not as white as human legends tell.

I know him. The rabbits know him. The foxes know him. Indeed, the whole forest knows him except his kin. He appears once in a while among them, but never lingers. He bears messages and is always heard, and the other deer marvel at his words.

And why do we know him--rabbits and foxes and trees? He is our king. He rescues the small from human traps, wiggling his antlers into the metal until it gives enough for the bloody appendage to escape. He even rescues his kin from time to time, leading them in circles to confound the scent and feeding them strange herbs to stop the bleeding.

He listens to my leaves as they fall. He stops and watches, a shower of gold pilling up around his legs. It’s just as he wishes. Now he can walk away, brushing my leaves against his knees as he wades through them.