There's a new post up over at Good Light Comfortable Chair. It's been very quiet over there for a while, but the barefoot brunette librarian has deigned to show up again and at least turn on the lights in the place. The post is The Stacks in My Study.
And by the way, when our friend Harold came in from the woods yesterday morning, he told me he saw ten deer, all does, yearlings and a couple of spikes, but he said the deer were very skittish, either because of a big buck or coyotes nearby. He expressed the thought that it was the presence of a big buck.
"I knowed he was there, cause I saw them big tracks on the way to the hut." (Deja vu, all over again.)
When Buck came in, he reported seeing no deer at all, but did see four wild turkey hens.
Harold didn't hunt yesterday afternoon. Buck went out with a new paperback book in his pocket, but showed back up before dark. "Too hot to hunt," he said. Mosquitoes had come out in the humid evening air. The lure of air conditioning, feminine companionship, and a Manhattan cocktail, followed by a dish of collard greens, turnip roots, stone ground yellow cornbread and a cup of pot likker was too much.
This morning, early, while Buck was still dreaming, a gunshot so loud I think it came from the side yard causes me to spill the coffee beans I was about to grind. "What the hell is that?" I say, and unlock and open the door nearest to the sound. About 15 seconds later, my fillings are rattled again. I do not like it. I do not like it, at all.
The wind will fool you with distances. I know that sometimes a rifle shot two miles away will sound like it was from a gun fired right out in the clearing in front of the house. I mutter to myself, pick up the beans and brew coffee. About twenty minutes later, from the study, I hear two more loud shots, each about 20 seconds apart. I go out the front door and stand there in the damp, coolish breeze for about 5 minutes. No more shots. I don't see anything, not even a bird or a squirrel.
There are other property owners on one side. And there are poachers. Poaches are usually meat hunters. Some of them need food for their families. Others are near-criminal brutes who kill for fun and don't consider the ethics of size, age, quantity or method. The hunting season has just begun, and while I don't begrudge Harold and Buck their time in the woods, I won't be sorry when the season ends.