As we near the rookery, we glance up to see heron glide toward their high nests in what seems the manner of pterodactyls, bent necks and huge wings. Then I see two deer and then more in the grass directly ahead.
“Brenna,” I whisper. “Be quiet. Do you see the deer?”
When she does, she demands to move closer.
“That will scare them,” I say. “Let’s just watch from here.”
“No,” she insists, “I want to see them.”
When I still refuse, she goes into meltdown, an episode that concludes with her running after me from the place she said she’d never move from, crying “daddy.” You know how it goes.