The deer were once my people

It was dark but they didn’t care. The electric light was brighter than the day itself.

We ran soulless and overrun with spirit, speaking in tongues, modern children of the third generation gap.

As Americans, too much of everything was at our fingertips. We vomited, overflowing with abundance, laughter and emptiness.

Three deer had come down from the brittle hills to find water and green. They grazed on golf course and cemetery lawns, looking like trees that had learned to walk.

I asked the greens keeper, a 72-year-old Korean man, “Who takes care of the deer?” He said, “The hills and god.”

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