Trigger fingers itch, as imaginations twitch. A far-away gaze as eyes glaze. And the mind strays to distant places. The season it seems, when hunting dreams and other schemes… of tracking, stalking, posting, walking, standing on air, avoiding the stare, or the contrary breeze, from the cover of trees… is months away and may never come.
No affliction so foul, no disease so dire, has plagued the soul with longing desire, for want of a trophy, or fill of a freezer, or companions in camp, or a well-told story. No antidote soothes, no vaccine prevails, no poultices, pills, no preparation for ills, can cure ‘til the day… the hunter kills.
Until that time, we heed this rhyme: The Fever of Fall Conquers all.