Buckley and I contemplate the vast civilization of frogs that lies in front of us on our pond. There is a huge beaver home in one corner. After the initial sighting of our indigenous engineer, we were somewhat dismayed to find out that he expired, wrapped in errant yellow electrical fence string. We’ve since learned that farmers tend to have deep scorn for the dam-building race. Apparently you can’t kill them, and you can’t them destroy your livelihood. All I know is that I am deep awe of the dam this beaver built.
Finally my canoe will get put to good use. Can you imagine a floating dock to push off from? A duck house filled with webbed-footed friends? Bill Mollison once said in some off-handed drop of knowledge that if you have beavers, in all likelihood your aqua world can support trout. He said, once you successfully stock trout in your pond, you can retire. I’m in.
abundanjah: Standing there with a gun in my hand. The barrel point blank to his head. All I needed to do was to pull the trigger, make a clean kill. I pulled… and nothing, I could cut the tension with a knife, my heart was racing, the gun was jammed. Randy’s head in the bucket of grain, enjoying every moment still. We get the back up 22, loaded, aiming right behind the skull. All eyes on me, making sure I get the deed done. My heart was again thumping, but I managed to keep my hands still, and click. The body drops, convultions take over, I lay my hand on the body while he takes his last few breaths, and I thank him. For us humans are really maladapted, we rely on the bounty of mother earth for our survival. I asked for this, to be closer to my food, to make a real connection to this place, to become fully human. And all flesh is grass. I hope Randy understands.