Grace Roams Free: A Morning in Falmouth

Grace Roams Free: A Morning in Falmouth

On an ordinary morning jog on Surf Drive in Falmouth, I was met with an extraordinary gift—two young deer silently stepping through a sunlit field teeming with summer blooms. The moment seemed pulled from a dream: wild ferns gently parting under their slender legs, the distant melody of birdsong, and a backdrop of golden flowers swaying in the breeze. It was as if the whole landscape silence itself to let them pass. I reached for my camera to honor the memory—this quiet ceremony of nature unfolding in real time.

What struck me most was the deer’s innocence, their unhurried grace. They weren’t startled by me, nor were they timid. They simply moved—free and soft through the brush, their white-dappled coats glowing against the green like verses from an ancient poem. In that instant, I was reminded that wildness still lives near us, not only in national parks or deep forests, but right here, by the ocean’s edge, where human lives unfold too quickly to notice what still walks among us.

This image is a reminder that beauty often appears when we least expect it—and that sometimes, the world asks only that we are still enough to see. I left the field with lighter steps, my heart fuller. This was not just a jog, but a witness: two deer moving through the music of the earth, reminding me that even now, grace roams free.

Poem Title: "Field of Becoming"

Between the wind and fern,
two deer stepped through the morning's call—
soft-footed verses on the earth’s wide page,
their gaze untroubled, their silence lush,
as if the world were theirs to learn.

The wildflowers bowed in amber praise,
golden tongues beneath the trees—
not a sound, not a cry,
just breath and bloom and gentle knees
folding the path of softer days.

A single glance, and time fell still,
as if all clocks had dropped their weight.
I saw myself in their unsure pace—
hope unshaken, tender fate
walking the rim of nature’s will.

No fences hemmed their curious way,
no hands to pull or guide them right—
just instinct drawn like a silver thread
through bramble, sunbeam, field, and flight—
two spirits born from light and clay.

And though they vanished like a sigh,
their echo lingers in the green—
a call to listen, a way to see
that we are part of what has been,
and what the quiet deer still try.

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