Drippy Tines

A heavy eight-point steps out of the morning mist, coat slicked down and water still beading on his antlers. He's working toward a puddle on the forest floor, head low, cautious the way mature bucks get when the woods are too quiet. Rain has left him soaked, but he's not in any hurry—just moving through the wet November morning like he owns the place. Fallen oak leaves carpet the ground in rust and copper while young pines frame the scene in green. The soft, foggy light and painterly brushwork give the piece a stillness, that hush after a hard rain when everything drips and nothing moves.