Summer of the deer

This has been the summer of the deer. They wander and mow our lawn and nibble down the dandelions like little fly-flicking vacuums. Their dark tails are nothing more than extended ears, flapping at flies as their fur fluffs and bristles.
They wander, no bigger than floppy-eared dogs with cropped tails, and bear no resemblence to the obsidian-eyed stalkers of the roads, who look at you tremulously when you bear down on them long after the stars have shut their eyes.
The trees are beginning to auburn and brown, those early leaves that sense premature death. They rustle, wind moving through them like a nurse, and I can imagine when they will fall, piles of autumn confetti.
Alaska is probably pretty this time of year.