First day of hunting season. I waken to a hot crrr-ack in the subject at dawn. It is the same hot shot of split wood. In its echo, the same sad promise of winter fuel.
It is not my husband. He won't take anything with eyelashes anymore. I sit up in bed and believe about this poacher, so lazy or maybe desperate for his charge that he has to sit illegally in my meadow in the dark, quite possibly in my driveway in the ease of his truck.
