Sherry Chandler » Brooks Carver
Brooks Carver
Brooks Carver, an honored member of our conversational community here, has a lovely essay in the Back Porch section of the current New Southerner. It begins like this:
The fields are quiet after the enduring business of harvest. It’s November. As we plod along, my golden retriever breathes in the likely pheasant scents, those faint, elusive clues hidden in the pasture. The horizon is blurred with light rain at the tree line where Little Indian Creek plunges into my stretch of woods. We walk the timber’s edge, and I check the old growth for deer. A small herd lives there. I can spare what little grain they need as they frequently feed in my cornfields. Occasionally they peer out at me from the deep woods, and I gaze back at them. They are safe, safer than they could possibly know. My dog spooks one from time to time. Away they both go, across the fields and over the hills. My hunter returns to me after a few minutes. She was fast in her younger days, but not that fast. The deer always come back later, when we leave.
Give yourself a treat and read the rest.
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