Early in spring, the valley feels open again.
Elk cross the meadow in daylight, following the first green.

Mule deer hold the timber edge a little longer.

You can sit still and feel unseen.
Nothing feels crowded yet.

Then the small things begin to change.
A truck door closes somewhere up-canyon.
Voices carry. Dog collars jingle. Pots clang.
Boot tracks appear in a drainage that felt untouched all winter.
Camps linger, one at a time, a few nights longer each visit.
No one is doing anything wrong.
Everyone is being reasonable.
Still, something shifts.
Even the wind feels thinner than it did before.

Elk move at night.
Deer slip off the benches earlier each morning.
Trails grow busy in the middle of the day.
No one’s intent is meant to be cruel.
But it doesn’t have to be
for life to feel that way. Scarcity only needs consistency
for tension to build.

The land doesn’t read intent.
It responds to presence.
By the time we notice something is missing,
it’s already learned how to leave.
And when we ask where it went,
the answer is usually simple.
It was still here.
Just not where we kept showing up.
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