by Dale C. Spartas
Some folks gather in crowds to cheer descending balls on New Year’s Eve. Not us. We go bird hunting in a little spot only we know, a place so precious we hunt there only three times a season.
It’s quite a crew—my pup Meg, Kevin’s Sage and Kate, Dave’s Hailey, and Hankster the Gangster. We hunt together “from morning sun till dine,” and then we grown-ups take a cup of kindness, yet. For auld lang syne.