A Deer Among the Trees

I drove up Mars Hill a few days ago, to sit in my car near Lowell Observatory. It has been my thinking spot since I was a teenager, a place where I have found countless moments of quiet reflection. But this time, on the drive up, I nearly killed a deer.

She stepped out of the treeline and directly into the road. I slammed on the brakes. My seatbelt jerked me back against the seat as the tires squealed.

The doe and I stared at each other for a long moment. My hands tingled with adrenaline as she moved through the dappled sunlight. Her pelt was ragged and I could see the outline of her bones. Eventually, as my breathing slowed, she moved back into the shadows of the treeline and melted away.

The deer only venture this far into the city when they are desperately thirsty. For the past few years, the monsoon rains that keep Flagstaff’s ponderosa pine forest lush and vital have been entirely absent. And the animals know something is not right.

Someday, when someone looks through a telescope pointed at this planet, what will remain?