Of All The Seasons, Autumn Offers The

Strip The Hills, Drain The Boglands, And You Create Flood Conditions Inevitably. Yet That Is What We Have Been Doing For Years.

I Grew Up In Those Years When The Old West Was Passing And The New West Was Emerging. It Was A Time When We Still Heard Echoes And Already Saw Shadows, On Moonlit Nights When The Coyotes Yapped On The Hilltops, And On Hot Summer Afternoons When Mirages Shimmered, Dust Devils Spun Across The Flats, And Towering Cumulus Clouds Sailed Like Galleons Across The Vast Blueness Of The Sky. Echoes Of Remembrance Of What Men Once Did There, And Visions Of What They Would Do Together.

Summer Ends, And Autumn Comes, And He Who Would Have It Otherwise Would Have High Tide Always And A Full Moon Every Night.

If You Ever Wondered Why Fishing Is Probably The Most Popular Sport In This Country, Watch That Boy Beside On The Water And You Will Learn. If You Are Really Perceptive You Will. For He Already Knows That Fishing Is Only One Part Fish.

There Are No Idealists In The Plant World And No Compassion. The Rose And The Morning Glory Know No Mercy. Bindweed, The Morning Glory, Will Quickly Choke Its Competitors To Death, And The Fencerow Rose Will Just As Quietly Crowd Out Any Other Plant That Tried To Share Its Roothold. Idealism And Mercy Are Human Terms And Human Concepts.