FRESH CUT GRASS

Two weeks ago I woke early in the morning, maybe 4:30 am, and decided to take a walk before settling down in front of the computer to get some work done. I stepped out to stretch my legs in the pearly light of pre-dawn. As I walked away from the house and down the driveway I watched as a trio of deer cautiously stole their way through the weedy fringes of the wilderness and on through some outbuildings. They were obviously intent on grazing in the center grass, which is a man-made meadow in the center of the campground. In these dry, arid mountains such a luxury as grass only occurs where man wills it. Every muscle was tense and their ears swiveled this way and that as they made their way. Risky.

Today I was cutting the grass and as I did the smell of fresh cut grass hung all around me like flavored air.  Then I understood why the deer had risked it. It must taste to them as good as it smells to me.