The hard work of hunting is to shorten distance. It does not matter if you are up a tree or in a blind, if you don’t live there all the time, your presence is loud. Each footstep a deafening roar to a deer, taking your weight and height based on the sound you make crashing through their woods. The scent off particles clung between the treads of boots. The smell of sweat. We’re the only ones who sweat. The hard work is watching the weather and reading the wind. Hard work clear

Love: to hold something higher than your own need, to value the health and happiness of some one, or some thing, at a greater measurement than your own reward. Love, like a tree, can grow twisted and gnarled yet never ceases to be love. And like a tree, love is innocent of the damage it does to those bold enough to say they understand. Love is premeditated sacrifice, like milk, when it could be blood. I’m sure at some point it was, hungry clones clawing at the host, the only

There is no law without language. The imperfections of languages contaminate the legislatures they create. There are flaws in all...

The house is open. A storm approaches.  Hushed voices, a wall hoisted and nailed in place  by the hammering of ironic minds.  The lights...

A battle to be free from anyone who takes without asking and without repaying, who makes demands before earning command and says being...