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FromĀ Making Game: An Essay On Woodcock:

Chet Reneson's "Northern Birds"

Chet Reneson's "Northern Birds"

“That evening I was lonely and I caught a condition the French call vin triste (“sad wine”). I returned to my motel room, packed, and told my dog that we were in the wrong line of work. Her eyes were like pats of butter and radiated a lifetime of trust. How could she know that someday she would be too old to hunt and that soon after she would die? All she knew was that she loved me at that together we had nudged dun-colored skies into fanfare of wings, whimpered and cut ourselves on talus faces, lost ourselves in sweltering bogs, and found birds where there should have been none. We understood each other better than most men understand god. More important, we hoped that when autumn came, the birds would fly.” pgs. 78-79

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