Night-fishing

Fireflies cavort in
night’s aphotic, velvet shade.
Sundry frogs exhort
the current’s babbled sermon.
Dusk brings summer lessons near.

November 20th

Footfalls on dark-shrouded leaves are muffled.
A trail illuminated only by memory is traversed.
It is 5:30 in the morning and three miles from the nearest road.
Searching feet find more snags than stealth would permit.
Somewhere in the distance comes a snort.
The game has been given away;
nothing can be done now.
Now we sit and wait.

Wait. Wait for the sun to rise.
Look. Peer through the fog.
Listen. Was that a squirrel or a deer?
I’ve done this for years
but it doesn’t get any easier.
The warmth from the walk in is gone.
Cold settles upon me.
It creeps to my toes
and harangues me for getting out of bed.

When the sun finally breaks the horizon
I awake from my sensory stupor.
Not only can I hear the calling of jays,
but I see the swaying of limbs overhead
as grey squirrels bound from tree to tree.
I do my best to sit still and watch.
Now is the time for magic.
The chorus of the woods is at its crescendo.

I check my watch to see how long it’s been
Since my cold hands wrapped a welcoming cup of coffee.
Three hours.
My careless movement disturbs the neighbors
and from a white oak a squirrel curses
my intrusion into the community.
He barks and scolds until I slink down
and let the buck-brush hide my shame.

But when I look up to assess my denigrator
something is not right about the scene.
He is not looking at me.

Deep breaths.
Where is the air?
Not forty yards in front of me
stands a ghost of wheaten brown.
How does an animal just appear
without sound or movement?
The hunted teaches the hunter a lesson.
But if I live for another hundred years
I will never be as at home here.

Her head is down.
Black eyes (like windows to eternity)
seem to meet my gaze.
Yet there is no flagging tail,
just flickering ears at peace with the world.
She takes a mouthful of fallen persimmon—
nature’s autumnal pride.
I’ve eaten many myself
and I think for a moment that it would be
a fitting last meal for me as well.

I came here for a reason.
I donned frosty boots.
I drew shallow breaths
after climbing hill after hill.
I even faced down a boss
who doesn’t understand
what it is to be called
to rejoin the circle of life.

Like many others led astray
he believes that food comes
canned or vacuum-sealed.
Is it naivety or willful ignorance?
In the presence of this sacred animal
I make a solemn oath.
Whoever my children will be
they will know what it is
to do what I am about to do.

Slowly, like an elm
bending under new-fallen snow.
I court the rifle
and we meet cheek-to-cheek.
A dark bead dances
over the greying coat.
In this moment of time
my heart is torn;
joy and regret intertwine.
The report silences the chorus
and nature is shocked at my act.
But I am thankful for her bounty.
With my stricken quarry
I make an honor-bound pact.

Setting Sail (For the OSU Seniors of 2011)

Now begins a time of change,
when old friends cruise with tattered mains,
their sails blown full with newfound dreams.

On some foreign coast they set their gaze
while we reminisce of the grandeur of our yesterdays
when kindred spirits and wry looks set hearts ablaze.

Emotions circle like gulls in the wind
and alight on the mast of beginnings and ends.
With sea breeze and freedom they now contend.

We wish them well with a pat on the back
and words of virtue to keep them on track
while hiding our faces when the tears do wrack.

They point their vessels to the rising sun
and feel the rays of a journey new-begun.

We see them vanish before our very eyes
and pray to God that true friendship never dies.

Ode to the Shotgun

I would rather have a shotgun than a car, home or steady career. In the well-crafted shotgun is the spirit of adventure, the soul of nostalgia and the dream of wilderness. A shotgun justifies the worn boot-leather of a wayward traveler. A shotgun provides a brace of game to both the pampered nobleman and the famished vagabond. A shotgun is the only worthy rival to the dog as utmost friend of man. The broken double-gun bespeaks the raw character of the olden sportsman for whom the beckoning fields are not an escape, but home itself. When the trigger is broken and the charge is sent to greet fur or feather the heart beats with a vigor rarely witnessed. A shotgun is the nobler firearm simply because its nature is that of fluidity and grace. As the cock flies in the copper-burnished sunset so the tempered barrels swing to it with equitable beauty. Even the residual trinkets of a sporting encounter are romantic. Those red hulls topped with gleaming brass release the fragrant curls of nitro—their pungency is the greater peer of bergamot. Hands that have not cradled the form of a fine shotgun have no more claim that those that have not touched smitten lass. Neither person should be entitled to the designation of “man”. Such is the understated merit of the shotgun!

On the Interview's Eve

Thinking on tomorrow
A host of possible outcomes
They settle not on my mind,
But amidst the hara

Deep breaths expel
the negative remnants of the lesser me
Like November leaves they fly,
And the clarity of fall fills my soul

One good suit in the back of my closet
hides like the doe in the oaken grove
I drape it over and imagine buckskin—
A cloak of confidence in a threatening world

An overpriced tie, all stripes and paisleys
The salesman said it was for “power”
I’m not naïve to believe all that is implied
God and I will make my own destiny

A rust bucket of a truck,
sails over the glassy sea of tarmac
I wonder if it will start
when I am to make my victorious return.

What does it matter after all
whether or not I am to succeed?
I would disappear into the shadows
of a world not confronted by the burden of achievement

Is a measure of devaluing currency
worth a lifetime of treading concrete?
Loam between bare toes appeals to
the untamed and unwashed self

When I speak to the interviewer
with words intended to persuade
I wonder if it is not society
who has in the end beguiled me?

Nomad's Spring

Fine sand deepens
As a foot crosses here
Shallow water speaks
A gobble echoes afar
Dogwoods dance at April’s bid

Product Review: C.E. Schmidt Hi Dexterity Goatskin Gloves

I have a love/hate relationship with gloves.

It seems like every pair of gloves I pick up have some hidden flaw that rears its ugly head at the most inopportune time. Generally when hunting I don't even like to wear gloves because they sacrifice dexterity and the "feel" of the trigger for warmth. I would rather have frostbite than make a bad shot.

How do you get around this? For several years I wore rag wool gloves that had the fingers lopped off. They *almost* worked for my purposes. The wool was no doubt warm and the tip-less fingers made squeezing the trigger accurately a possibility. But, again, they were flawed. Wool can get too hot and the pair that I had featured a annoying fold-down mitten that would not stay out of the way for anything.

Glove trial 2.0 was brought on two Christmases ago when my dad thoughtfully responded to a request for dexterous gloves. This pair was an very light, very stretchy blend of some sort of spandex/elastic compound. I thought that they might just do the trick! I wore them shortly thereafter on a late season antlerless hunt, snagged one briar and the entire glove unraveled from the wrist up. Splendid!

Once again today my common sense flew off somewhere to roost and I thought that I would look for a pair of shooting gloves. Of all the places I found myself it was Tractor Supply Company that had the best looking set. I picked up a pair of the C.E. Schmidt Hen's Hi Dexterity Goatskin gloves for $19.95. That is quite a bit of money for a pair of work gloves, but not so much for shooting gloves. A decent pair of leather shooting gloves will easily run you $100.

I brought the gloves home and fiddled with them for quite a bit. The gloves are a combination of spandex, neoprene and goatskin. They have a stitch around each wrist to ensure snug fit and do not feature a cinch or a strap. The gloves were not too hot at all in today's spring weather. The goatskin is fairly supple and dexterity was good. I attempted to test the dexterity by working the slide, ejecting and inserting magazines and manipulating the safety and bolt-release on my Ruger Mk. III. The gloves were satisfactory in all tests. I was also surprised that I was able to get my large fingers into the small trigger-guard of the Mk. III with little difficulty.

Overall, I really like these gloves. If I were to rate them on a 1-10 scale I would have to assess them an 8.

Pros
~Very dexterous
~Snug-fitting
~Lightweight and breathable
~Relatively low cost
~Palm and fingers padded (This is a major winner for shooting those hand cannons!)

Cons
~Goofy rubber tags on gloves (I removed them with my pocket knife.)
~Uncertain of durability (The goatskin is soft, but we will see how it holds up.)

I would recommend these gloves for anyone who prioritizes economy, comfort and dexterity. I don't think that anyone would have a problem looking pompous and privileged wearing them on the sporting clays range either...

(If you want to see a larger image just click on the picture.)


Manufacturer's specs and ordering:
http://www.tractorsupply.com/workwear-clothing-footwear/gloves/mens-work-gloves/c-e-schmidt-reg-men-s-hi-dexterity-grain-goatskin-gloves-734102599