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I hate hunting season. For a person with untreated anxiety, hunting season is the pits. Especially when your HP is from southern California, and, by all rights, should not give a toot about hunting, but does anyway, because he fell in love with the land nearly as much as he fell in love with you. At this moment in my life, I am not prepared to wait on our ancient, nearly fourteen year-old vehicle to come charging up the drive with him in it. I am a frantic, hand-wringing, pacing, house-cleaning wreck, and the only time I could relax, all day long, was when he finally texted me to tell me he was on the highway home. It’s exhausting, and not anywhere near the staycation I envisioned. This season is hard for an introvert-hermit-poet-shy-girl.

Put on top of that the wicked cold D2 and I have, and you have recipe for panic and soup.

This is the most exhausting vacation I’ve had yet, but there is still time. Given that feelsiest feelings I’ve had all day are about hunting, I’m going to try to poem that and go to bed.

Hunting Season Without Breath

It’s not you who scare me. You are competent. You are the strongest and the sexiest. It is the fate, and chance, and tragedy and the fourteen year-old Jeep Grand Cherokee with battery issues. Please stop going to the mountains alone. Here’s what we do. We worry alone and make soup. Yes, we could take up arms, but it does not interest us. Yes, the fretting should stop. But it doesn’t, and that cannot be discounted. This season of harvest and gather, it is wearying, if only because mountains are high, and cars are unreliable. What I’ll do is, I’ll think on help until the dogs start barking, and I hear that engine up the drive.

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Gug. This is a wicked cold. Blech. I really do hate hunting season, so I probably should just start hunting, but I can’t because I hate to walk that slowly and quietly.  Happy Tuesday, Poemfriends.

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