The Rut

Late September the hills ring with bellows as stags roar their challenges with gusto collecting up the does into large herds ready to give battle to the very death. Walkers be wary as you too are an intruder many have been pierced by their sharp antlers The nine pointer in his full prime paws in anger this is his land he is master of all he peruses. No tolerance for the young contender they briefly spar and the youngster flees it is not yet his time maybe in a year or two. The master stag bellows out his triumph. A rustle in the undergrowth, and a loud crash heralds the arrival of another stag in his prime they meet with a ground shaking crash of antlers locked in mortal combat they fight for hours. The ground ripped up and red with their blood they struggled back and forth, neither yielding The challenger now weakened gives ground as with a final clash he turns and limps off. The master roars out his victory of this day, gathering up his does takes them to water. It will be his sperm this year that is carried on His fawns that will rollick and frolic the meadows