Every year at “hunting” season on Vashon Island at least one orphaned fawn shows up on my property trying to make it alone, and every year I read this poem by Barbara Tanner Angell from “The Long Turn Toward the Light” that talks about a man who wounds a deer and has to shoot it, but as he walks up to it with a pistol, it licks his hand.

I also try and wear a bright-colored jacket when walking outside and put up my “no hunting” signs. It does not change anything, including my understanding of the definition of the word “hunt” when applied to tame deer on the island. And I cower inside when I hear gunshots at dusk. I love Vashon. I do love this island, my longtime home, but not so much during what is called “hunting” or “deer” season.

— Marilyn Kastien