Stalking

Not long ago I'd mentioned the buck who, on a Sunday afternoon, let me draw close—merely lifted his regal head and observed my coming.

On the best days, the writing is like this. The scene lies directly within view. It neither buckles nor flees upon closer inspection. You just keep walking toward the story, and it just keeps staring back at you, unguarded, unpestered by your presence.

Those are the best days. The ones where, afterwards, you keep the page that you wrote.