Three weeks.
Polishing the edges of my broadheads, drawing the crests onto my arrows, time to get the truck organized and clothing sorted.
There is a chilly rain falling, leaves are becoming splashed with scarlet and gold, the woods are a little easier to see through. I work and work and work and work, six days a week, doggedly marking time, eyes fixed on a dream of oak ridges and witch hazel, spattering spring water and deep, moist hollows where the red spruce whispers secrets to the laurel. The ravens squawk those secrets openly, coarsely, in their indecipherable tongue. Oh, to be a raven, whisking over the rolling terrain, flicking through the trees, seeing all...
Killdeer