Blades whirring beneath my seat, I approached the downward slope. I startled her, and the jerk of her head caught my attention. We looked each other square in the eyes.
Holding her gaze as if it were sent from heaven above, I first pressed the lever to stop the rotation below, and then turned the key to kill the motor.
Four, long, nimble limbs, supporting a body with fading white spots intended to camouflage, darted onto the scene. Now four brown eyes stared unblinking at two hazel.
What to do?
No harm, I said in a whisper voice.
Was it a sign of trust that Mother doe bent her head and plucked a fallen green apple from the grass, chewed, then—with grace—plucked another before leading her fawn down the overgrown path away from me as if I was nothing more than a furry hopper with two long ears?
The story suits my tastes and therefore, it’s the one I’m telling myself.
What kind of stories do you tell?