The young buck, my nagual

So, I'm driving along

Passing old-wall-hemmed-in fields,

(Walls swallowed by overgrown hedgerows),

An occasional patch of woods,

More fields,

The occasional farm,

When, up ahead, I catch sight of a deer

Running straight down

The middle of a field

Right toward the road.

If he keeps going at the same speed

He and I will likely collide.

As I slow, and he keeps coming,

I make out two little antlers sticking up between his ears.

There is a thin margin of trees

At the bottom of the field

All but concealing an old stone wall

And most likely a rusty remnant

Of a barbed-wire fence.

With no other cars visible

Behind or in front,

I slow to about 10 miles an hour

With my head turned to the right,

Trying to catch a glimpse of the young buck.

And, there he is, standing

Among the trees along the road,

Looking right at me.

The expression on his face

Speaks volumes to me.

It is a look of fear and bewilderment.

And then I realize what is going on.

This is the first day of hunting season.

This young buck is basically,

Against the odds,

Trying to disappear.

But there is more to it.

When I saw his face

I was looking at my nagual.

It was like looking into a medicine-mirror,

Showing me my animal-soul.

You see, I too have been running

Like a hunted thing.

The world we live in is governed by predators.

Every day in this country is the first day of hunting season!

If you, like me, don't condone war,

Even in principle,

Then we are strangers in a strange land

Because this land is the land of guns and war.

My ideas, my values, my principles, my dreams

Are all at risk.

They are the deer, the yearling buck of this world,

And I am running across the field,

Crossing dangerous roads,

Crossing the next field, the next hedgerow,

The next patch of forest, where I catch my breath,

Until I hear a gun go off and then I am off once again

Running for my life,

My beautiful, beautiful life.
(Article changed on Dec 01, 2025 at 6:26 PM EST)