Golden Stand

A mature eight-point holds at the edge of a meadow, backlit by the last gold of the day. He's locked on something—ears forward, body still, that frozen moment before he decides to stay or go. Tall grass gone amber surrounds him, and the tree line behind blazes with autumn color while the sky fades to purple. It's the kind of light that only lasts a few minutes, when everything turns warm and the woods go quiet. The backlighting rims his body in gold, turning a common whitetail into something worth stopping for.