I was dressed like a tree and smelling of acorns and doe urine, a curious perfume of my own mixture which makes me invisible to a buck who's better sense has been blinded by the rut, an event that peaks in Kansas on 11/11, which, by the way, is my birthday.
And I was sitting on a log in a nice piece of woods, on a doe path crossing a gully,
when I turned, and there was a buck about this far away:
but with humongous antlers, fully grown out of velvet into six points, with eyes just as sweet as those of my friend above, yet stronger and bigger, and frankly, much more healthy, and I said to him,
"Damn, you're beautiful. Now go on your way, knowing that a man can trick you, by looking and smelling like a pissed-over tree."
Which he did, turning back often, with remorse.
For a friend is a friend, no matter how strange.