Me, a word I use in French sometimes, moi. The rays of the sun from behind the clouds one day on the beach lying and reading and sipping the beers we brought from our room, the beers that we bought yesterday in town, a summer ale, I think, or was it the Lobster Ale I’m thinking about. I want the fried fish platter at the Shagawong, a pint of Blue Pointe Toasted Lager alongside. Enough said; what more could you want to be said or could I need to tell you? Nothing, something, anything, what?
I saw a deer, a doe, with her fawn one morning. I quietly got our camera and stealthily made my way to our back porch where I took photos and a short video of the deer and her fawn grazing the bushes by the back lawn of the place we were staying at in Montauk; the deer then making their way across the road out back that ran along the edge of the dunes with high grass the doe and her fawn made their way into; then along the edge of the slope of the dunes, making their way back, I assumed, to the cover of the wooded area at the beginning or the end of Hither Hills State Park. I watched them disappeared as deer might do when pursued by predators. I do not know who their predators are out here, unless it is deer ticks; but I do not know what ticks do to deer, only to people, and that is sketchy, the knowledge of, if you will.
The Falling Leaf Review 