August 25, 2001

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  Biting the hand that feeds you.

  
  

  It was getting to the end of the season; the sun was shining, and smell of fall in the air. We were taken to a new patch of timber. I could hardly believe my eyes. The ground was flat. After all year on goat ground, this was flat, and the trees were standing, like cows waiting for milken time. After a couple days of work, one momma, and two cubs of raccoons started coming for lunch. They were nice having them around at lunchtime. I would give them scaps, and even brought extra for them. One day reaching out to momma with a morsel, she bit my finger, which made me angry, and I chased them up a tree. There they were looking down on me poised to fall the tree as if they were saying, woodsman, spare that tree. I was going fix them guys but my heart wasn’t in it, and I allowed them to leave. What a soft touch.

  • 1:59 pm
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