A brisk autumn night. A dark road rounding and straitening through the country. From the edge of the road, a deer peaked through foliage, hesitant. It slowly made its way into the road and began crossing while a car rounded the corner. The deer stopped, turned, staring right into the large, glowing eyes of the car—the headlights appeared much bigger, much brighter than they really were.
What was it thinking? Why did the deer pause? Something must have happened in the brief space of time, that gap between the still dear and the roaring car. Was it so surprised that all it could do was just stop in the moments of danger. Perhaps for the dear, the car seemed as peculiar as if a giant UFO was flying toward me—ready to crash, smash into me.
Last night, I was in Olympia—round 7:00 p.m.. After leaving the Capitol Pride festival, I crossed the street—dazed and unaware. I didn’t see the car coming my way until I looked at it straight on and paused. Paused in the same space in time that held captured that deer.
Yes, that stuffed deer on my wall that paused when it saw the size of my pupils.