Upon the ridge, so stark and steep, The antlers rise, a quiet sweep. A shadowed herd in twilight’s frame, Majestic, wild, untamed by name. Their figures etched in black and white, Guardians of the fading light. The hills they tread, both vast and still, Are bound to none but nature’s will. In solemn grace, they hold their ground, Where silence reigns, no human sound. A fleeting glimpse of life so free, The ancient call of destiny.