There will be time for that. For now, I revel in existence, the stunning now-ness of things. I remember how, almost two years to the day and beneath this same stand, I had a lone doe come in, tracing strangely aimless loops at 3:30. Thirty seconds later, the biggest-racked buck I’d ever seen came into view. He was dogging her as if the two of them were the only beings in the world. I know now that his antlers weren’t thigh-high and wide as a doorway, but they looked that way then. I do remember that he moved like a quarter horse. I saw his shoulder muscles slide under his hide as he strode. He busted me in short order but didn’t bolt. He just looked straight at me for a long moment. I could read his mind. I was a potential threat, something to be aware of, but more on the order of a rival buck than a hunter with lethal broadheads seeking his life. While my legs shuddered under the hurricane of neurotransmitters loosed in my body, he kept at a distance of 30 to 40 yards, usually screened by undergrowth, and focused on the doe. He never altered his gait, always moving to cut her tangent at each new loop. With an arrow nocked, all I could do was watch, transfixed, at something I knew I might never see again. It was torture to be so close and not get a shot. It was rapture to even see this buck in daylight. After an eternity—somewhere between 15 seconds and two minutes—they disappeared.