They are the only ones who hear me. I am the only one who sees them. Seven silent deer with great hearing and sensitive sight like mine. Seven who graze with no care but should not be here. Seven old camouflage garments handed down from the generations. From our stands, we can see them, but they just eat and don’t notice where we are.

Their strength is known to all. They run recklessly through woods to get away. They show up and they check fields and grab the foliage between their powerful jaws and bite the foliage with crushing teeth and hate to end their feast. This is how they live.

Unaware of his surroundings when eating, they’d all drop like dogs hearing fireworks, each hearing the twing from my bow. Run, run, run they think when I shoot. They run.

When he is too tired and too hurt to keep running, when he needs a tiny house to lie down and rest, then it is game, set, match. When he has nothing left to run through these woods. Six who ran despite the odds. Six who survive and do not fret when scared. Six whose survival is another's death.