I seem to have entered into a period of days in which my urban deer are invisible.
That sentence, of course, contains a couple of falsehoods: Not only are the mule deer not "mine," but they aren't invisible, but simply are showing up at times I am not watching.
But, because of recent snowfalls, their tracks tell their stories.
For instance, there is the highly disrupted patch of snow that reveals snouting for grass, or at least grass roots. There are hoof-prints, together with the long, gliding marks that indicate a leisurely stroll across my yard. Then, there are the tracks that lead directly up to my back fence - and then disappear.
Of course, there also are the little piles of dark-brown pellets, chocolate sprinkles on a white landscape.
Those signs aside, the deer have been out of sight. It's a condition that I've been thinking about a lot recently. First, I watched a movie about Bengali immigrants in England called "Brick Lane." Then, today, I watched a yarn about immigrants to America from India (and their offspring) called "The Namesake." In each case, the humanity of those newcomers went unnoticed - uncared about - discarded like trash - by all those patriotic Brits and all those true-blue Americans of Italian, Irish, German, Scandinavian, and English descent. I'll stop now.
No sense in busting a gasket. Those long, gliding tracks of the mule deer need another look.