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Out at first light after the last of the hen-of-the-woods (identified properly, triple-checked, field guide in pocket as always). The fog was so thick I could only see three oaks ahead. Then I heard breathing that wasn't mine. A stag, maybe twelve feet off the path, standing so still he looked carved. Neither of us moved for what felt like an hour and was probably forty seconds. Steam rising off his back. He didn't bolt. He just turned and walked into the white like he was going home. I left an apple on the stump where he'd stood and said thank you out loud, to him and to whatever else was keeping the woods that morning.