They are a memory, more as an emblem and ideal than creature. I never tasted elk flesh, though I heard praises. Nor have I stroked the fur. What I’ve known has appeared only on the forest floor as track and scat – no ticks on the neck or patchy summer skin like the moose where I now live. That, and winter encounters viewed from a distance.
The deer who frequent our yard these days are so small by comparison.
Will I ever revisit the Pacific Northwest where I lived? Would I even recognize most of it?
Or was it all gone in the divorce?
Jnana's Red Barn 