I am torn.
I don't feel like shooting geese when it's 85 degrees. Yet the season opened today. I could have brought out any one of my toys, and shot some. There are 50-75 in my yard right now.
But I just don't feel like it.
I think I may have come apon some of Lowell's unlucky cartridges, and they have cast a spell on me. Destined to rattle their desolate lives in the dusty pocket of my hunting coat. How could their lonely rattle have so stolen my zeal?
I hear their honk as they circle the house, and my ears perk up, my dogs look at me longingly, they hear them too, but I just don't feel like walking across the yard and out into the stubbles. Even the scared young, having lost their parents in the pre-dawn barrage, honk and squeal as they circle my drive. I cannot bring myself to set even a single decoy.
It's even worse when I know some of them are banded. I can see their anklets when I get out my spotter.
Maybe I'm dying.
