Holy crapper! :eek:
I miss my old outhouse. The forest service put in a resonation station, and the old wooden privy is gone. Gone the spring-ginging door, wherefrom one could gaze upon God's beauteous Creation while balancing atop the wobbly white-enameled steel seat. Gone the fickle drafts that played about your nether parts, whispering of the turkeys up the ridge, the deer among the hawthorns, an ever-present barometer of game movement.
But you, you have a Taj Mahal, paneled in pearls, yet bespeaking strength, a veritable seat of power, a monument to the inner workings of Mankind.
I am awed.
The very sight of it might bind me up for a week.
Now, about those deer. Their eyes are closed. How did you do that, you shoot them in their sleep? Sew them shut like the seeled eyes of Berkut Golden Eagles? Sew them shut like the headshrinkers of old? My deer hang around wide-eyed, gathering data from the words and workings of their killers, to pass on as spirit-lore to their kin still roaming the hills. Nothing can escape their eternal gazes, and over many years their intelligence-gathering has led to a dire waning of my prowess as a hunter. I will, should I become lucky enough to kill more deer, start blindfolding them after hanging, and only allow pig Latin to be spoken in my camp.
Yet again I have learned from watching you, Ron.
I am so very grateful.
Killdeer
Topic: Shrewhaven 2011 (pics) (Read 3279 times)
