by David B. McCoy
It was our senior high school year; Rhonda and I were cruising back roads in Pennsylvania. And though it was a dark, moonless night in early winter, I was brashly driving too fast.
The moment we flew over one small knoll they were there—standing stock still in front of the car—their eyes glowing like candles: Eight deer. I slammed on the brakes—preventing an explosion of fur, muscle and steel—preventing, perhaps, our own deaths.
That was twenty years ago. But from that night on, like the dull ache some feel right before the weather is about to change, I have felt the movement of deer in my bones.