Verse 1
At dawn a small white deer came out of the reeds with one broken antler, and the sun touched the wound first.
At dawn a small white deer came out of the reeds with one broken antler, and the sun touched the wound first.
The deer asked the light, “Why do you always find what is hurt?” And the light said nothing, but stayed there.
A red bird landed beside him and said, “Maybe the wound is only a window that forgot it was a window.”
The deer did not understand this, which is how most true things begin.
They walked east together, though the sun was already coming toward them from everywhere.
In a field they met a lamb sleeping beside its own shadow. The shadow looked more awake than the lamb.
“I am afraid of being soft,” said the lamb. “Everything with teeth seems to notice.”
The bird replied, “Soft things are noticed by teeth, yes. They are also noticed by hands.”
The deer thought this was either wisdom or a very dangerous way to live.
Near noon they found a moth resting beneath a yellow flower, hiding from the brightness it had searched for all night.
The moth said, “I wanted the light until it became too much light.” No one laughed at her.
Even longing has eyelids.
They rested beside a river, and the sun broke into ten thousand pieces on the water without becoming less whole.
The bird said, “Look. This is what happens to the One when something begins counting.”
The deer looked at every shining piece and could not find which one was the real sun.
A fish rose from below and said, “Maybe the mistake is asking which reflection owns the light.”
Then it vanished, because fish rarely stay to explain themselves.
By afternoon the deer was tired. He lay beneath a fig tree and confessed that sometimes he wished he were made of stone.
“Stones break too,” said the lamb. “They just take longer to admit it.”
A wind came through the branches and carried away three white feathers from the bird.
The bird watched them go and smiled. “What leaves me was never outside the sky.”
The deer asked, “Then what can truly be lost?” The bird answered, “Mostly names.”
They climbed a hill where the grass had burned gold beneath the sun, and every seed waited inside something that looked dead.
There are forms of tenderness that resemble ruin from far away.
At the hilltop they found a fox with a thorn in its paw. The lamb was afraid, but still came close.
The fox trembled when the thorn was pulled free. For one moment predator and prey forgot the names given to them.
The sun lowered behind them, turning all five creatures into one long shadow.
“There,” said the bird. “Your bodies disagree, but your darkness has already become one.”
The deer laughed, and even the fox did too, though fox laughter sounds like something being kept secret.
When evening came, the deer finally asked why his antler had broken. The bird said, “So you would follow the place where the light entered.”
The deer looked back and saw no road behind them, only grass bending where many small bodies had passed.
Before sleeping, the lamb whispered, “What if morning never comes?” The deer answered, “Then perhaps we will discover what was shining before it.”
And before dawn the creatures dreamed the same dream: that none of them were carrying the light, none were seeking it, and none had ever stood outside it.