Mulling things on my morning ramble
with Storm, the family's mixed Lab.
Storm surged away as I stretched into the less-traveled edges of my extended ramble. That usually means something has fired in the more primordial recesses of his brain.
So I usually pay attention when he starts acting like that.. It paid off today again today.
Out of a small stand of trees on the edge of a cornfield, two red foxes bolted and I caught them because I was anticipating something wild happening.
Red foxes are my favorite mammals. River otters are a close second.
It fit right in with my morning thoughts.
Before we set out, my oldest brother sent an email with a link for ``Genes,'' a wonderful poem by Sharon Dunn.
American Public Media airs/posts ``The Writer's Almanac with Garrison Keillor'' every morning. ``Genes'' was today's focus.
It included this sentence in two lines:
The outdoor hunting genes
are in the dark men in my family.
Work that over a bit.
I guess in the context of Ramble with Storm I should say, ``Mull that.''
Her core sentence is probably true in the most broad and general context--If you go beyond the people who hunt as a social activity. Her sentence truly captures those of us who hunt because we have to hunt.
Colors are changing.
In the last few days since the frost, the yellows really popped in trees and shrubbery, especially the locust trees.
Again, a quiet morning for wildlife, other than the red foxes.
A great blue heron flapped off from the edge of the north old clay pit. At one point, a wing tip dipped into the water. A lone dove flew off by the edge of pit.
Back in town, Storm found the one squirrel out this morning. It bolted up a tree, then, from safety high in the branches and leaves, chattered expressively his opinion of the meathead.
And, by extension, I assume of me, one of ``the dark men in my family.''
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