The Twins of July

I remember a picture of my grandfather when I was a kid. He was wearing his standard outfit of blue overalls and a blue shirt. He was sitting on his front porch, a tiny fawn at his side.

Summer mowing on the farm in Vermont meant watching closely for fawns. Their mothers would leave them in the safety of the tall grass of the fields while they went off to feed, not calculating around the rare appearance of a roaring mower that would clear the veil of safety in efficient swathes.

For several years now, we have had young visitors to our suburban backyard in Connecticut. I've started to jokingly refer to it as a nursery. I like to think the deer moms trust us. But it's more that they're just used to living around humans here.

They walk from one yard to another in groups of varying sizes, and they tread paths in the small bit of woods behind our lawn. Sometimes at night when I take out the trash, the back light illuminates the space between me and their resting forms where they are bedded down in the back half of the yard. They look up but do not run. The once smooth grey trunk of our magnolia still bears deep grooves from the male looking for a place to rub its itchy, shedding horns.

At least three times now, we've had twins. I've checked the date stamps of my pictures: July. They come in the weeks after the fireworks of Independence Day. I never know when they'll appear. But I keep my camera and long lens ready, just in case.