I took this photo outside the window of my tiny home (AKA RV) early this morning. I live in a small tree-encircled park within an Ashland neighborhood, just a few blocks from Main Street and the quaint downtown area. Deer outside my window are a common sight. I find it both beautiful and tragic. Beautiful because–well, just look at them! It amazes me that nature still dares to thrive where roads and sidewalks crisscross every few yards. I feel closer to Earth for their presence. Tragic because over time these deer will probably end up limping through their final days, one, two, or three more casualties of the unending “game” of car versus deer played out in our roadways. Over time, the coats of these gorgeous fawns will become mangey and scuffed. They will lose their sheen as they have already begun to lose their wariness around humans. In fact, someone was outside, working just a few feet from where they stand in this picture. The loss of wildness disturbs me. The fact that these “urban” deer will not bolt free through the forests and drink from clear streams makes my heart ache for them. Sure, there are dangers in the wild as well, as evidenced by the mountain lions that sometimes venture into Lithia Park to freak out tourists and locals alike. But the long fleet legs of deer weren’t made for meandering through backyards (although they work quite well for leaping over the fences people put up to try to keep them out). They were made to wander in places without borders—fences, walls, buildings, Interstate highways. Today, I will think about what constrains me, what confines me, what keeps my own wildness from breaking free. Especially in my writing. Because we must write as if we are wild, as if we are free. Nothing else will gives us words to express the beauty and tragedy that life on this incredible planet offers each day.