I hate to deer hunt.
I hate the dimness of a late November afternoon.
I hate the knowledge that a deer might come, and spoil my plans regarding coffee and a
fire.
I hate the chill wind, the groan of writhing trees, and the rattle of sleet against
dry leaves.
Did I mention how I hate the dimness? I suppose I did.
Most of all, I hate that you are not here, waiting at the truck or camp with coffee,
or sometimes whiskey, and stories of what you did or did not see.
Who else would love to hate these things but you and me?
