A few puddles here and there, but dryer. A nice warm 50° November day, to go wandering, before hunting season, which begins after Thanksgiving.
I spend my time wandering down the lane, finding old rusty metal fence posts, and wiggling them out of the ground, out of the roots of trees that they harm. Laying them on their side, along the path.
Dante works, too. Jumping into the brush, pulling out the largest heaviest branches he can find, then tugging them down the lane with him, or racing with them held high, fascinated by the movements they create, almost as if alive.
We come upon a somber place, where somebody caught and killed a Partridge. The beautiful feathers blown by the morning breeze. Interesting, because somebody also defecated right on the pile of feathers. And it's early. So it's all wild. Looks wild.
Usually we're alone back here, but as we walk further back into the fields and forest, I suddenly catch a distant glimpse of a black-and-white dog, running. Fast.
I sidle over to Dante, l's lip the leash on his harness. Turn, and look again. And they're there, orange coat, orange hat: a hunter.
The time of being here is done, until after Christmas.
The time of being behind my own house, and the conservation fields, will be done too.
Hunters flock to the area. The government releases all of these partridges and pheasants, absolutely clueless as to survival, and the hunters descend soon after.
Kind of a 'Cheney shooting his friend in the foot as the idiots get driven to a field where caged, never flown birds get released, and the great white hunters bang away. 'Only a bit better.
We walk rapidly back to the car, still pausing to pull out a few more rusty fence stakes, dragging a few more exceptionally long branches with glee.
The sky overcast. The colors magnificent and fading.
Not a hint in the air of any sort of winter coming, at all .
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