It’s happening. The weather is cooling and it doesn’t matter that my days are packed with Ducks Unlimited, working out, writing, lecturing and traveling. I’m ready to fly falcons.
My falcons, however, are not ready to fly.
Last night I dreamt that I found the final two tail feathers, the outer two of the train shaken loose from my hybrid. I can’t drop their weight and get them in the air until they are done molting and these last two feathers heralded a two week training opener. At last! I danced and sang about it being my birthday and woke up disppointed. In the daylight, my grumpy falcon was holding all her feathers tight to her body, glaring at my inspection and proximity. Then she hissed and jumped away. I should have named her Garbo.
Yet, I can taste pheasant, smell the damp grass on my jeans, my heart races imagining the discovery of a raft of ducks, the jet craft roar of a falling falcon. I’m hearing falcon bells at intersections, even though there are no birds in my truck.
I’m ready to go, but I’m still waiting on the train.
Must… hunt … ducks…
Hank’s leaving tomorrow for a duck hunting trip in Canada. I have to wait until Oct. 24, like all the other mere mortals.
I haven’t had a duck dream yet, but with the blessed departure of the triple-digit temps, one can’t be far off…