It was a morning I will not soon forget. The landscape was covered in a thick layer of frost and fog slowly crept across the water. It was a morning calendars are made of. The kind that demands your attention.
Dixie and I were wedged in amongst the cattails anticipating the mornings action. It was very still and very quiet. The first gunshots rang out like canons across the slough. It's go time. Bring on the wings.
The cool nights have began the fall migration. Newbies decoyed rather well. From gadwall to green wings. We even managed to fool a few honkers. Low water levels made for plenty of mud, but were no match for Dixie. She sloped through the sludge dragging her prize geese to heal. I often wonder what a guy would do without such a companion. Dogs make the hunt.
With changing weather condition and a lack of birds, Sunday was a much slower day. Warm and windy. Southerly winds and low numbers are never good. Either way, it's a good place to be.
This is the first season without my Grandfather. That frosty morning was his gift. I will never forget the rising sun reflecting off the frosty crystals that coated every blade of grass. The sound of air filtering through flocking blackbirds wings. The smell of a freshly fired shotgun shell. He was there.