Hidden by tall grasses and plumed ferns, a tiny, spotted fawn lies motionless. Waiting. It’s mother is somewhere nearby. A fly lands on its ear. Still it lies motionless, not daring to move. It is so precious. To reach out and touch it, feel it’s softness, run my fingers down it’s head and back – that is my impulse, but I hold back, hardly daring to breathe for fear I might frighten it away. This moment is precious. One in a lifetime. And who would have thought that this little fawn, lying motionless at my feet, is tucked away in the farthest corner of my very own field?