On silent hooves

We walk into the woods. The dog is focused, sniffing the ground, erratically moving left and right, pulling at her lead.

The only sounds are birdsong and the crack and snap of twigs, acorns and horse chestnuts beneath our feet. The air is damp, thick with the smell of rotting leaves and bark.

Although it’s only early afternoon, the wood is shadowy and dark; a little light struggles through the trees, touching the path we walk along.

Then, almost by instinct rather than sight, I see the deer. It stands just five feet away, frozen, completely still. A large, dark animal with small antlers; its black eyes meet mine, and I, too, am rooted, staring back.

Like in a movie, time and sound seem to cease. The dog is unaware of the other presence; it’s just me and the deer.

Then, without warning, the animal moves. It glides away on silent hooves, slipping deeper into the undergrowth – and in an instant, it’s gone