The big buck came through the other day. In, as they say, the broad daylight. Bold move. For a guy like him. A guy the shooters would like to kill, then cut off his head and put it on a wall. But he moved with unconcern. And why not? He'd been in the fire.

He was the first deer I saw, after the fire. On the Friday. Or maybe the Saturday. I came off the porch and round the side of the house, and there he was. He was moving stiff. Because of the vision problem, I couldn't tell if he'd been burned. "Don't be burned!" I cried. I couldn't have borne it. If he'd been burned. But as I got to know him, over the next couple of days, I learned he had not been burned. He was just worn out. Because it wasn't just the people, who ran, in the fire.