Faline's Folly

If I were a doe, I would see the early morning fog clouding my vision as I cautiously step into the field for a nibble of grass, the warning flags of my friends as they flee into the forest signaling the presence of a predator to my province, and the distinctive path of well-worn weeds revealing the route to my resting area.
If I were a doe, I would hear the faint whisper of the wind cautioning me that winter is coming, the bleating of my newborn fawn as she nudges me for milk, and the cascading waters of a crystal clear creek as it journeys toward the ocean.
If I were a doe, I would smell the sweet fragrance of honeysuckle vines racing along the fencerows, the pleasant perfume of fallen acorns crushed by the sharp hooves of other deer, and the musky older a my friend "Flower" misnamed by a young and baffled Bambi.
If I were a doe, I would taste the freshly cut corn that the combine has forgotten, the succulent sweet clover tops as I gracefully graze a flowering field, and the tangy "zing" of a not-quite-ripe persimmon snipped from a low-hanging branch.
If I were a doe, I would feel the butterflies in my stomach as I become hopelessly "twitterpated," the soft fur of my newborn fawn as she settles in beside me for a nap, and the pride in knowing that my mate is the prince of the forest.