Lawn of the Dead

A week ago, a line-up of wild turkeys strolled past the front porch, not unlike the ladies that make a regular habit of walking the Loop Road. Around that same time, I heard the raucous yipping of a coyote band ... at around 3 am ... clearly celebrating something nasty.

I hoped in my heart that it wasn't the chickens. It turned out to be a deer. Whether it collapsed in our back pasture or was drug there, I'm not sure.

The good wife spotted it the next day. We could see it from the house: the tufts of fur sprayed out across the snow, and the darkened mass of a carcass lying limp. Eager to make sure the appetizer wouldn't lead the coyotes closer to the house, I strapped on the snowshoes last night and hauled the thing deep into the woods.

The snow is still deep here. And firm. There's no vegetation showing, other than the hardwoods. Digging down would be near impossible with a shovel, let alone with your claws or hooves or beak.

The wild things are in a hungry place right now. They're moving and looking and eating what they can find. Unfortunately for them, there's not much on the menu except eachother.

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