With a gentle, quiet breath he scanned the area. Black eyes peer between tall grasses, amber at the edge of his vision. The bright sun obscured yet more of his eyesight, transforming everything to his left into silhouettes. The coronas those black shapes had were too much to look into, so he merely listened that way. Listening did not mean much in the Birch Wood, where even the grasses tried to talk over one another, but he tried anyway.

The black and white bulk of the stag lay low to the ground, soaking in the morning rays. He refused to move from where he had bedded down for the night until the sun was far enough overhead that he could see the new creatures that swarmed this place. The herbivores were confusing. It was as if a great amount of them had come all at once. Where would the deer find food with all of them here? What were they even? Moss did not know. They just made him nervous. Maybe, one day in the far future he would be comfortable around them. Moss grunted at the thought. He was unable to see that happening yet.

Moss rested his chin on the packed grasses, leaning a bit to one side so as to allow his neck a break from the velveted antlers that rose from his head. A sigh blew pollen from the plants. The golden specks dazzled his eyes briefly, reminding him what this place was truly about. It settled his soul. Just as long as some deer remained, there would still be peace here.

A time later Moss rose, his snowcapped shoulders the first of him to appear above the grasses. Quietly and effortlessly he moved off in search of some way to start the day.

Perhaps he might pray first.