Yellow the field were ripened the grain; yellow the moon on the harvest day. Maple Front Farms, Perry MI.

I am not a photographer yet. All day long pictures have posed themselves and I have missed them. I'm walking down to Euler Lake and a doe watches me until I reached rock throwing distance, quite close. If that doe were armed I would be dead. It bolted through a neighbor's yard and through a ridge row of burr oaks and down into the swamp. I hadn't pulled out my cellphone camera so I had no chance. However, I had an intuition of deer and my sense of smell delivered that. Must tune into my intuition, the core of me that is singing lyrics: Country boy can survive. Country boy can survive. I am a bad naturalist because I can't identify birds by their calls from the hedge rows. The birds are making those calls in warning because I am treading the dirt road too loudly. Quarter mile before me, I see a bluejay flying away from limb to limb, going north on a road running north away from me. As the jay flies is equidistant to as the Wilbo walks. Fleeing bluejay brings another song to mind. Way down yonder not so very far off, a bluejay died of the whooping cough. He whooped so hard from the whooping cough that he whooped his head and his tail right off. Same song, second verse, a little bit louder and a little bit worse. I saw this combine offloading a stream of golden grain into the truck trailer and I turned around. By the time I got my car turned around and parked on side of Beard Road, the maize had slowed to a trickle, still beautiful against an October blue sky. The pair of farmers might had cut off the flow and driven away, not liking the attention. Must be careful of offending the local farmers, and letting a loose dog scare deer is enough to risk a dead dog. Remember when my shepherd in 1987 found a leather tool belt and he began to chew it like a chew toy. I offered to pay, checkbook in hand, and was refused.

I tried to avoid a opposum last night but it shot out into the head lights too fast. I swerved and my left driver's side tire sounded thud. I saw plenty of roadkill but not the opossum carcass this morning near corner of M-52 and Beard Roads. I wonder if I'll ever stop my car to pick up my kill for jerky and fur. It would be talked about for miles and I might earn a reputation like a man from 1970s Shiawassee County, a man tagged Red Taxi. He kept a police light on his ride and brought derision to people's lips that I didn't understand. Speaking about photography, I noticed five red tailed hawks and two turkey buzzards sharing a fur covered hunk of bloody meet, unidentifiable. They flew off over the Aginaw Lake marshes but landing by their meal before my dust settled.