A river bottom wakes slowly in chorus with the dawning sun. Crows call out as their brethren arrive from their nighttime roosts and a sundry mix of winter songbirds flit about the lonesome bare branches that protect the river's edge. Feathered pink clouds stain the perfectly white backdrop, a rich aroma of coffee jumps out of my thermos and elicits a deep, invigorating breath. Then, only as hushed as dandelion down on the wind at first, from somewhere behind me, the unmistakable sound of wings slicing through the morning sky. The mallards, about 10 in all, fly in low overhead and then bank sharply up river, falling below the tree line they are soon out of sight. I blow through my duck call a short but eager greeting series of quacks, but I do not see them rise up above the sycamore and elm trees. I look out on the river and the small pool of water that has been slow to freeze from the gentle though constant current. Perhaps they didn't see the 6 decoys bouncing lightly in the river's eddy as the sun has not as yet vanquished the long morning shadows.
I take a sip of coffee from the stainless steel lid of my thermos as tendrils of steam encircle my head and then vanish. Something catches Nellie's eye and she whines in response- I am sure the ducks are close; though they have eluded my own senses my dog misses very little. I keep my head down while I watch the chocolate eyes of Nellie shift down slowly. I peer out from under the bill of my hat to see wings fluttering and mallards looking for room to land among the dekes without hesitation...
Man, this cool weather we've had lately has got me geared up for hunting season. Ghost-like memories of past hunts and day dreams of future ones only serve to fuel my anxiousness for autumn. Yes dove season is here, but that is just a tease, a dry run for the real thing. Well, at least teal season begins next weekend. I know I shouldn't wish my life away, but I love hunting. Here's hoping a north wind will blow, sooner rather than later.
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