A perfect morning – surf guitar on the tape deck, clean bright weather in the mountains around us, and a downhill road to rising trout.
Time feels as if it is standing still.
Bob reaches to turn up the volume, then a quick brown mass hurtling in front of the car BAM! And tumbling awkwardly away and to the left.
Shocked, we roll to a stop and get out. At the side of the road the doe kicks three times, then expires.
A short distance away a fawn watches from the shadows. I wonder if it comprehends what has happened.
Bob stares at the crashed grill of the sedan. With a stick we pry open the hood and inspects the innards. Everything seems in place and solid. Also remarkably clean; Bob has a fetish about his car.
We stand around for a minute or so, dumb as stones, not sure what to do next. Above, a hint of breeze brushes through the pines. The fawn has disappeared.
Bob breaks the silence. What the hell, he says, let’s go fishing.
