The buck had come to the clearing especially for the beautiful and sweet flowers that carpeted it. He ate a many-blossomed flowerhead, chewing slowly and with great relish.
The buck had traveled a long way to the clearing, to eat the beautifully intricate, vibrantly colored and succulent, sweet flowers that grew here in proliferation. He had been coming here for a long time - year after year, without fail, he came here on his birthday. He ate a flower here every year, as a treat to himself, as a reminder of who he was.
The buck had traveled from far, far away to this clearing, one he had known all his life. Every year, no matter where in the swamp he was, he returned to this clearing, the place of his birth, to treat himself to one of the hardy red-violet flowers that grew here, carpeting the ground in their leaves and blossoms. The flowers of this plant were multitudinous, many tiny flowers arranged in a little ball on a single head. Each little flower had a tiny amount of nectar in it, sweet and grassy, tied irrevocably to his youth as the first thing he had eaten, to his future as the last thing he would permit himself to eat before he rejoined the swamp, and to his present as his namesake.
Clover.
He gently plucked a flower from its place on the ground, and chewed it thoughtfully, and left.
