Cathedral

An eight-point buck stands frozen in a shaft of morning light, ears locked forward, weighing whether you're a threat. The autumn hardwoods rise around him like the columns of some ancient church, and the sun breaks through the canopy in golden rays that turn the mist to something close to holy. Fallen leaves carpet the forest floor in copper and rust while a pair of bluebirds work the bare branches overhead. It's that hushed moment before the woods wake up—when the light comes in sideways and everything holds its breath. The title fits: this is where the deer go to pray.