Florid Antler Hymn

They whispered—no, repeated like a skipping phonograph—before the board was lifted from a drawer fattened with dust. A deer, yes, but its antlers pulsed into cherry limbs heavy with pink murmurs, as if spring had grown teeth and perched upon its skull. Children—at least that’s who they felt like—traced petals on the flat page, tasted sweetness at the edge of paper, sugar buzzing with the smell of aged glue. The brass plaque glowed too warm, almost singing, almost asking, *Where Vojta?* Nobody answered; they only tapped the little diagrams—flower, seed—and held their breath in tiny ritual beats, three for each blossom, then none. Some said the buds listened, folding silence back into bark. When their eyes finally blinked, the moment already wobbled away, and even the ink seemed less certain. Vojta, they agreed softly, had not stepped out from these branches. Not yet. Not here.