A sound or a movement alerted me and I sat still for a moment listening, hearing nothing, feeling the prickly sensation along my spine of an intruder. I carefully raised the shade and peered through the window and we locked eyes, me and this nocturnal visitor. A buck, because close to the top of its head I could see jagged nubs remaining where its antlers had been shed. Where there’s one deer there are more deer and they come often at night to graze the remnants of my frozen garden and chew the hemlocks and yews as high as their necks will crane, leaving behind their cartoonish mushroom-shaped legacy of green crowns over branches stripped bare. With much impunity he stands outside my window as if expecting an invitation inside because the leaves and needles are dull tasting and he wouldn’t mind a home-cooked meal and a sit by the fire. But what I’d like to do is to get my bow and introduce him to my arrow and turn him into my home-cooked meal. Goodnight young buck, may I see you again, somewhere else, under different circumstances.