Notes from the Small Pond... Dearly Hunting
What could possibly go wrong? Predawn. Five layers of clothing. Sleep-Groggy. High-powered rifle in mittened hand. Climbing a tree. Wet and icy. Blood sugar somewhere south of 50 mg/dl., gobbling an overdose of carbs to be regretted in an hour. Good times. Once in the stand, the world settles. The trees stop swirling and the wind stands still. The sun pinches, then spreads, over the Eastern horizon like an orange, swollen blessing as the carbs kick in and make things sane.
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