All that moved was her pivoting ear.

Stills from documentaries I found on Folkstreams:

Buna and Bertha: Ballad Singers, 1972

Buck Season at Bear Meadow Sunset , 1984

Got to thinkin' about this poem I read a few years ago, by C.K. Williams. "The Doe":

Near dusk, near a path, near a brook,
we stopped, I in disquiet and dismay
for the suffering of someone I loved,
the doe in her always incipient alarm.

All that moved was her pivoting ear
the reddening sun shining through
transformed to a color I'd only seen
in a photo of a child in a womb.

Nothing else stirred, not a leaf,
not the air, but she startled and bolted
away from me into the crackling brush.

The part of my pain which sometimes
releases me from it fled with her, the rest,
in the rake of the late light, stayed.