The sea of pines below me sends up its whispers to the heights of my watchtower. I drink coffee. I sit, a book closed on the table next to me, watching the forest instead.
The impact of his footfalls is more felt than heard at this distance. Crows circle him. He has the form of a dead stag, his chest cavity gutted and their contents long gone. He is many times taller than the tallest pine. His hoofsteps are slow. They hardly ever break the trees below him. He is no rush. Where does he have to go?
His great head turns. Sometimes I think he is looking at me. More likely those glowing white eyes are looking at the watchtower. I don’t think he can see us. And if he could, he wouldn’t recognise our significance, if we have any. Then his head turns back to his course.
Paddy Dobson
12th July 2021