I Miss Deer

A July confession from someone who keeps binoculars in the truck

A migraine knocked me flat this week. It also knocked my writing plans sideways. Rather than force something new, I decided to dig through the archives for something that fits this time of year.

I wrote this one almost exactly a year ago. It still feels relevant. The bucks are in velvet. The evenings are thick with heat and humidity. And I’m still creeping down county backroads with my binos, looking for deer I have no business being this obsessed with.

The binoculars live in the center console now. That’s how you know what season it is.

Most evenings, I’m out on the back roads with the windows down, creeping past peanut fields and soybean rows like some kind of heartbroken fool. I ride slow, scanning the edges for the flick of a white tail or the rise of velvet antlers. It’s not hunting season—not even close—but I’m already turning twitchy.

You see, I miss them. I need to know what they’ve been up to. I’m like a creepy ex, stalking them after a bad breakup. I know it’s over. I know it’s not time yet. But I can’t help myself. I count down the minutes until I can see them again, like some lovesick idiot who never got the hint.

The crops are tall and thick now, a deep verdant green that hums with heat. The air hangs heavy in the evenings, humid and hazy, turning the light all syrupy like honey. That light lays itself over their red-gold flanks like it was made for them. I don’t get to see that color in the fall—by then their coats will have faded to a dull, grayish brown. But now, in this middle season, they glow. That coppery red against the green fields? It guts me every time.

I’ve been watching a couple of good bucks that hang out in the open field behind the dentist’s office. They are magnificent. Tall, symmetrical racks still in velvet. Graceful necks. Big, broad chests. I’m obsessed. And not in any useful way. I know I won’t get to hunt them this fall. Most of the deer I play Peeping Tom with live on land I don’t have permission to set foot on. So it’s not scouting. It’s not even pretend scouting.

It’s something else. Reverence. Worship. Devotion.

That’s what keeps pulling me back out here, night after night. Not just the thrill of seeing a good buck—though I’d be lying if I said that wasn’t part of it. It’s the feeling I get when I finally spot one. That sudden silence in my chest. Like the world hit pause and handed me a secret. Like I’ve stumbled into something private and perfect.

For a few minutes, everything else disappears: the squash bugs chewing holes in my garden. The new file on my laptop labeled Wedding Plans for my youngest kid. The ache in my chest that she’s suddenly old enough to be planning a wedding. And that slow, relentless passing of time I can’t seem to hold onto.

The deer don’t care about any of that. They move like they always have—careful, quiet, completely present. They don’t miss me at all.

Eventually, the golden hour fades, and the air shifts from honeyed to gray. I ease the truck around and slide the binoculars back into the console.

I should probably break it off.

But I know I’ll be back tomorrow.

Same time. Same road.

Still stupid in love.