I packed the dry box already.
A month from now, the bottom will be filled with empty hulls, spilled dog food and an indiscernible assortment of shotgun shells, granola bars, trash, mud, blood and feathers.
Now though, it’s neatly packed with organized boxes of labeled shells and dog supplies.
Meanwhile, the dog and I are aching to hunt. We took a walk early this morning. We jumped a fork-horn bull and saw the remains of a fox-killed ruffie. We savored the cool air of early morning, pretending that it wouldn’t hit 98 as the sun fell from its apex.
On the walk back to the truck, the dew fall glistened on the still-green grass in the high country. The promise of a flush and a fleeting shot against an aspen-filled backdrop are no longer idle thoughts of summer, they are valid mental exercises.
Before leaving, I turned back and looked across the hillside.
For the first time in an equinox, it wasn’t a look of longing.
I loaded the dog in her box and said softly to the unseen birds, “We’re coming for you.”
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Mouthful of Feathers 
Here here!
Good luck up there, Greg! Hope you all get into some birds. Down in SE NM, it’s looking like a sketchy quail year, no draw for elk, no water for ducks, but some doves and deer tags along with too much work.