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November 20, 2007
Quietly, almost imperceptibly, he left the warmth of our bed. I was still, breathing, barely aware. When I woke later he was gone.

Eight feet up in the crook of a tree he sits patiently listening to the creaks, crunches, and swayings of the forest. Still, bow and arrow ready, poised, to avoid any excess movement. Waiting

I mix flour, butter, sugar, whatever else, to have warm muffins when he returns. Sometimes peaceful, no deer, but a morning of meditation. Sometimes reverent and satisfied. On those days he leaves the truck up top knowing that I don't want to see.