Early November brought a new buck by my camera. Subway could’ve run a special on the length of his G-2s.
He’s definitely aging better than I am, but the truth is, neither one of us is getting any younger.
Looking like he’d been painted into the wood line, framed in brown oak and matted in green pine, the buck was mature and majestic.
My daughter’s all grown up now, driving cars and dating boys and preparing for college. But that six inch spike will always remind me of the little girl I took to the woods one November afternoon.
Tag Soup doesn’t mean that you missed an opportunity. It means that you earned yourself a better one.
Sherman’s been dead for years now, but I still drive by his house after I shoot a deer, wishing he’d answer my knock, wishing I could see his eyes light up when he spotted the blood smeared across my knuckles.