First frost in the valley, patches of golden aspen beginning to pop on the hillsides, the occasional mountain maple, as if overnight, lit up like those neon Rolling Stones lips, blowing seductive, semi-obscene kisses your way through the living room window.
This is no tme for staring at a laptop.
A couple handfuls of purple shells.
A stout, trusty pump gun with an action scarcely changed in a century (thank you, John Moses Browning). A straight stock and a forend of scratched, pedestrian-grade walnut.
The old, simple canvas vest seems right for this, not the fancy, feature-laden modular one. As if it’s a choice.
Briefly wonder what choke is in the gun, but then figure that it really isn’t that important – whatever choke you left in it at the end of last season is probably just fine. There’s a danger in over-thinking this.
Jeans and Red Wings and a wool shirt.
A shorthair beside himself at the emergence of a long gun case from the closet.
Let’s go.
Mouthful of Feathers 