Old Man.

Sometimes the old stag stood on the mountain, chest puffed up as the rain poured down. His broken antlers shining in the wet. His fur matted to his skin. He had earned every scar and every scratch. He still looked powerful even with his age. So many battles won, now just a distant scent on the wind.

If deer could feel, he felt his age. His shoulders  burned, his knee joints ached. He had struggled to climb so high, but this was his mountain, his ground to guard and as the rain fell on the old stag his knees buckled. He fell to the ground, the fast beating heart quickened slightly and then began to slow. He rolled onto his side, looking up at the dark clouds.

If deer could feel he would have been scared, or maybe he was reflecting on his many children. He helped populate the mountain and the forest below.

If a deer could smile, perhaps that old stag would be smiling as his heart slowed and the rain poured down and his heart stopped, but the rain kept coming unable to wash the scent of life off the mountain.

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