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Compass for a deer

Fishing for salmon in heavy fog off Vaughn Bay I nearly rammed a drowning deer. I try to herd the inert body. When I begin to talk to him, he snuggles the side of my boat. On compass, I grab a twelve inch head spike, sight for shore. Belly deep in the shallows he leans into me. I stroke his muscled back, touch antlers: You believe I am enemy, but I'm behaving like a friend. He labors out of the water, heads for sheltering woods. Broadside mahogany in a clearing sun, he turns, his splendid rack held high and steady.