Heart-shaped tracks wherever they go,

Their patterns of travel I’ve come to know,

Up on the hill in thickets they sleep,

Into the lowlands at evening they creep,

To browse on succulents and tender faire,

Socialize with others of their kind there.

Oh, yes. Deer have their own social schemes,

Develop habits, learn rules, nurture memes.

Their vocabulary is rather plain, and aired vocally

Several iterations of “come here” only heard locally,

“Run away” stated in a loud wheezing snort,

Various forms of cough, from soft to loud report.

I must mention some of their language of the body,

It’s primitive, but in practice is not at all shoddy.

The ears swivel and snap, tell a story to all about,

Attitude of rigidity says “pick your escape route.”

A stamping foot says “alert-but-don’t-panic-yet,”

The white tail has an incredible semaphore set.

Their senses are keen, eyesight is quite good,

 Shades of gray, excellent in night or deep wood,

Auditory sense is better, with big ears that swivel,

Olfactory is best, their nose always adrizzle.

Individuals loosely cling to a socially designated herd,

A matriarchy for does, with bucks it’s a different word.

During this time, testosterone flows in strength,

And horns (antlers) grow in mass and length,

With a covering of velvet, they’re tender to touch,

Are guarded carefully against damage and such.

The bucks are mostly loners September to June,

Then form bachelor groups pecking order to tune,

Sort who’s boss, and who steps aside for who,

So in full antler, fights to death will be few.

In September velvet peels with the help of rubbing,

A crown of hard bone to give saplings a drubbing

And spar with buddies to cement the order

Of access to does within territorial border.

No phone’s available in this world I describe,

Communication is direct with the deer tribe,

Buck leaves a message, a love note to sell.

In a pawed spot on the trail, urine will tell

A doe in estrus all his vital statistics say,

What his father of the year potentials weigh.

If it’s November, she’ll add her own information,

And hang close by for his next visitation.

If she’s still hanging when he comes along,

A chase is in order, and he sings her his song,

A low grunt, grunt as they join the dance.

And on meadows and woodland wildly prance,

Until her resistance has completely worn out,

Then sweet consummation is what it’s about.

He’ll stay with her ‘til interest wanes,

Then without ado, they take separate lanes.

He’ll renew his scrapings and go off scouting,

She’ll find female kin, forget the romantic outing.

He in late December will lose his crown,

One, then the other, will drop to the ground.

She forages from bushes and the forest floor,

She’s eating for two, if not three or four,

If she survives until March and spring arrive,

The squirming inside she’ll know is alive.

By late May or June her babies she’ll birth,

Color blends perfectly with leaves and earth,

Red-brown, white-spotted, legs all undone,

Designed to be invisible, yet ready to run.

The yearly cycle done, society marks a win,

Horns sprout, babies grow, hormones spin,

For the life of me, no huge difference do I see,

The social graces of deer or those of humanity.