Buck, buck, buck, is what a chicken clucks like

Trout Whisperer

Buck, buck, buck, is what a chicken clucks like

At three thirty pm, on most days, I get to drive home. I travel down a busy city street at thirty miles per hour until I hit an on ramp that allows me to go sixty five miles per hour jettisoning me from the city strife, and the instant I hit that stretch,
I step on the gas pedal and then much to my surprise not a one or two or three four five six seven eight nine ten eleven, but a twelve point buck, stepped in front of my truck.
I smashed the brakes. Heard the screeching, felt my fists clench the steering wheel and my arms brace for the collision. My stomach was one big knot.
But I didn’t, hit the buck.
He stood there on the center line, I’m but inches from him, the guy in the oncoming lane in his white car and I made eye contact. I think we both let out a major collective sigh of relief as he was lucky not to hit the buck either.
Then the buck swings that massive eight nine ten eleven twelve point rack to the east, then a bit more east over his rump almost telling us, well, maybe I’ll go back the way I came... but, no, he then swings the huge antlers neck and head to the west, takes a couple steps with his head and headgear headed north, wanders in a urban drive and starts to munch on some amour maple leaves.
Well, I may never know why the chicken crossed the road, but I sure no why this great big buck did.
---The trout whisperer