Sign for life, in green

And today, because I was there, all but that rifleman I mention, missed or simply failed. Thirty hunters raking though a valley, nine dogs chasing through, and a single kill. And when I tell you twice I walked onto a trail so fresh the muddy leaves were still unbending, I assure you, until the moment it began, there were plenty of animals in those woods.  But Lesnik and Herne saw the sign on my chest and agreed, fuck 'em. It's the day spent in nature that counts, not the roast after. I did approach the rifleman about getting me the atlas bone, so perhaps at least there's a crown in the story. That man likes me as if I were a little kid. I wonder if the idea that I may like him as if I were an adult has ever occurred to him, or is the very concept of considering a friend's wife so unrealistic for the pragmatists this people all are, all they ever think about is just hunting, fishing, hound dogs, their work, strikes, occasional sports grandchildren and once in a while a leisureful vacation. 

       There is another half-deaf man in the group, we just started communicating today. It feels good to compare how we hear sounds when a room of people is all talking one over another. It's strenuous if you are actually trying to make out conversations, but kind of a pleasant rolling mess if you just accept it. Problem is almost all of these men whose company I enjoy have mustaches and although they try to tell me things, I can only assume what they were. Probably on the subjects of hunting, fishing, hound dogs, their work, strikes, occasional sports grandchildren and once in a while a leisureful vacation