As we were walking the path, overgrown with weeds and wild flowers, along the edge of the woods, I noticed a small depression in the grass, where a deer had probably spent the night. As I was beginning to open my mouth to point it out to my son, something stirred in the high grass just beyond. Before I had the time to reach for my camera a tiny fawn stood up, glanced at us, and leaped swiftly into the woods. He was just about knee-high, probably a few days old, all covered in white spots, less than two meters from us. "How cute!!" exclaimed my child, as we stood there, half startled, half mesmerized by the tender beauty of nature.
As we stared at each other, without the need for words, the fawn disappeared into the woods. We reached for each other's hand and kept on walking, not at all disappointed that we did not find the strawberries, as perhaps the little fawn's mother enjoyed them for breakfast instead of us.
On our way back, I picked some of the lovely wild flowers along the path, as my child pointed out patches of dirt where turkeys had scraped for worms. Now those flowers sit on my porch, in an old, rusty coffee percolator, their tiny petals saturated with strong, vibrating colours: a silent reminder of the gentle power of simple beauty.
