Such times

These are wrenching times. More than 100,000 Americans now dead of the coronavirus pandemic, with 1.7 million confirmed cases. Yet the country, with tens of millions newly unemployed, rushes to reopen, practically guaranteeing a second wave somewhere ahead.

Horrible times. Black Americans continue to be killed by the country's police. Protests erupt. Minneapolis burns. The unrest spreads.

Protestors, too, with camo and longguns, descending on Michigan's capitol to object to stay-at-home orders. Freedom means free to be stupid, free to die, and free to take innocent others with you. Freedom means carrying an assault rifle when making a point.

Such times. Our president seeks to pour gasoline on every fire, and to start new ones constantly. He falsely claims that mail-in voting is rife with fraud, and that its expansion is illegal. (Several states have used it pretty much exclusively for years, including red Utah.) He says the next election will be rigged, just as he said the last one was rigged when he believed he would lose it. Constitutional scholars are preparing for what happens when Trump refuses to leave the White House after losing in November. Coronavirus turmoil and Trump turmoil might rage simultaneously during a national winter of despair.

Such times. The president of the United States scurrilously promotes the baseless conspiracy theory that Joe Scarborough murdered an employee decades ago. He's ready to start shooting in Minneapolis. Twitter is now flagging his tweets as false or dangerous. Our national psyche is being thoroughly gutted, as a desperate, pathologically deranged, narcissistic president becomes increasingly unhinged. Which is saying something, after all that has transpired these past three years.

And so it happened that in the midst of all the national tumult I came across this fawn in the grass. First fawn of the season.

Click on image for a larger view

Newly born fawns spend their days bedded down under strict instructions from the doe to not move. And they don't. It's their only workable strategy for survival at an age when they are utterly helpless against predators. Being found means being dead. Mine was so young that it would probably not have mounted even a token resistance if attacked by a coyote. It lay completely motionless as I stood over it, seemingly unaware of my presence. Nary a twitch as an ant crawled over its nose. I snapped a few photos and carefully backed away.

Unaware? Maybe it was aware, but nothing could be done about my hulking presence above. Don't move!

So well hidden are fawns in the grass that the only way to find one is to almost step on it. It has very little odor, and the doe helps keep it that way by consuming the fawn's feces and urine. Thus predators can't find it by scent. Each morning the doe selects a location to hide the fawn and then departs, returning at dusk.

I come upon several fawns in this manner every season, but only because I am far more methodical than a coyote can or is inclined to be. I cover a lot of terrain in my tallgrass prairie restoration—all day, every day—walking endlessly back and forth on a tight pattern looking for certain weeds with which I do battle. Finding weeds means finding fawns.

Turkeys, too. Sometimes a momma turkey will sit so tight on her nest that you have to almost stumble over her before she will flush. When that happens it's like a helicopter suddenly erupting in your face: A heart-pounding experience for all concerned.

Turkey nest

I likewise encounter several rattlesnakes and copperheads every year. The average person not on a weed mission and making only brief forays into nature would seldom if ever experience these things. The probability is low on the occasional outing.

The fawn eventually stirred, and raised its head a little. It regarded me blankly as I took a few more photos from a different angle. Then I departed for good.

So goes life in the growing season of the prairie: my life and the prairie's life, conjoined for a while. An eastern meadowlark sings with beautiful clarity over yonder. The days are long, pure, and physically exhausting for an old fart like me, careening toward oblivion. For a while each day I live with the illusion that the crazy guy in the White House can't touch or corrupt the goodness out here. Then, in the evening, I go home and learn what new trouble he has caused.

 Copyright (C) 2020 James Michael Brennan, All Rights Reserved

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