-Finding solace and connection with quote from an article by Doug Stamm entitled "Winter Wonder Grouse" found in the most recent edition of Fur Fish & Game- 
         "Yet, in the end, the winter grouse usually wins. After all, these are the wariest and the wisest. A walk in wild places is the only thing guaranteed -- and that is more than enough for me. If I am fortunate enough to bag one for dinner, I count myself lucky. When a bird flies away over a ridge, I tip my cap and wish it a bountiful spring."

Sunday being the day off for hunting in the lovely state of Maine, I decided it might be as good a time as any to go break some clays, gotta stay sha'hp don'tcha know. So I go down to the pit with Matt, the girls, and Abby in tow. After both doing fairly well on our first few clays, Matt and I decided to amble into the pit and get a better look at a pumpkin that was just itching to be shot at. As we stood surveying the harvest fruit, two partridge exploded from the brush we had just showered with orange powder and bird shot. Taking wing, they flew across the pit, right to left offering both of us wide open unimpeded views of them. Both of us stood there, wide eyed and moon faced, white knuckles clutching loaded guns, but what're ya gonna do? Guess it's hard tell'in not know'in.

King of the Thicket & Burr

         Hidden away, among the thorns he struts; not passively mind you, but without any notable purpose. He dodges the advances of the oncoming spikes, bobbing and weaving masterfully through the maze of brambles he's become so familiar with. He stops momentarily, just long enough to devour several ripe barberries, then again commences his journey. The trajectory of his trek is North, North East, and up a south facing slope. It's not a steep incline, but in combination with the thick underbrush it serves as sufficient refuge; sanctuary from the meek or lazy. As he reaches the top of the incline the brambles begin to recede, opening up to the lush forest floor carpeted with leaves. Their colors pale only in comparison to the rich aroma cascading off of them. It comes as a welcome side-effect of their decomposition. Within this break in the chaos of snarled branches and pricker bushes stand three derelict apple trees. Standing alone as the last remaining members of what was once a proud orchard.

           To the rarely exposed human eye, the presence of the three trees evokes a nostalgic emotions, as if the trees themselves where channeling ancestral memories from a simpler past. At the same time, their presence provides a comforting reminder of the circle of life, adaptation, and wholeness. Even in their absence, humans can still provide for nature and the wild things that inhabit it. It is a reminder that all things have a cycle and balance. To the King of the Thicket and Burs, they are not memories or reminders, they are only trees. What the views of our two species have in common, is the trees roles as beacons. To us, the beacon is a metaphor for an emotional ignition, spiritual catalyst; it is something abstract. To his majesty it is concrete, a physical landmark if you will, but more importantly supper .

          He waste no time moving across the ten foot distances between each tree, stopping only when one of the many of the fallen fruits that litter the forest floor proved to be just to appetizing to evade. Nearing the end of the Orchard he reaches a decrepit moss covered stone wall. The skeletal remains of a large sugar maple lays across the cobbled fence. In one swift flapping motion of his wings and a push from his muscular legs, he perches on the rough bark. From atop his throne he can clearly see his kingdom, and soon enough he will begin beating a rhythm that will echo out over it proclaiming to adversaries and suitors alike that this land is his.