Sika

t’s late afternoon in early October. The light is starting to fail and, as you wait in your high seat, an eerie sound drifts across the heather-covered heath. A rising and falling whistle, it is repeated twice more and seems to be coming from a block of conifers beyond the clearing. As you listen, straining your eyes for movement, another stag replies to the challenge. The sika rut is in full swing but the light has gone and you will see nothing tonight. Maybe dawn tomorrow will be more productive.