“Kurt says he’ll bring his tractor over in May and bush-hog the south fence line if you need the brush cleared,” Dale said.

“Tell him I’ll have a pot of hot coffee waiting on the porch,” I said.

Dale gave a single nod, shut the truck door, and backed down the drive toward the county road.

I carried the cardboard box into the kitchen, put the venison packages in the upright freezer, and took the stainless thermos out onto the back deck.

The afternoon air was crisp and dry and carried the rich smell of pine needles and damp oak from the ridge.

My boots made a sharp, clean crunch as I crossed the piles of dry oak leaves along the tractor trail.