There: a deer. In the dog-hair saplings on the edge of the fire road. Not the whole deer, but the deer of memory—pieces and parts among the thicket. It’s like a deer made of sticks, just the articulated forelegs, a curve of the chest. It moves into the thicket where it becomes less distinct, a brown blob, branches rocking with its movement, and then it is gone. My heartbeat slows. I wait and watch. When I was a child, I read many times that in order to see deer in the woods, you did not look for deer, but parts of deer—glints of antler, the horizontal line of a belly or back. In the woods behind my home, I would practice looking for whitetails. I forced myself to look between the spaces, between the trees, tunneling my eyes into the dark voids, training my mind to hunt, looking for the deer that were not there.