Originally Posted By: Stan
I get my share of clays, Mike, but there is no substitution for the little grey rockets we call doves. They haunt my dreams even in May. It is a sad, sad thing (to most of the world, not to me blush) to be so consumed with something, as I am with shooting doves.


I understand and then some. I sit up here in MA where they are a protected songbird cry and watch them fly around knowing I will never look at one over the rib of a long-barreled 20 ga. What I would give for another warm Sept. Sat. afternoon in a picked MD corn field sitting on a stool next to a fencepost, hearing my father yell "Mark!" as the next flight swings in for dinner (theirs and mine).

Such a long, long time to be gone, and a short time to be there.