Counter-Seasonal

Birds are singing, nests are being made and in some cases young are being fed. The air is balmy and spring is here.

So pity the poor old stags. There's nothing for them to celebrate. They are lethargic and desultory. They wander across the moor as if the season has nothing to offer them apart from a welcome relief from cold temperatures. They are moulting and antlers have fallen. The source of their pride has gone from them, prominent gaps have appeared in their now shabby coats.

 A careful look reveals significant bumps where new growth is coming.

Yet some way behind the main group another figure appears coming up the slope, still holding his head high. Behind the others in this too, he won't stay this way much longer.
 

There's always one.