Good Morning Gentle Readers,
There's another someone who wanders around out in the hills where the dogs and I often take our morning constitutional. Her shoes leave a shallow, boat-shoe-like impression, quite dainty next to my manly, off-road boot prints. We've not crossed paths, but the evidence of her passing is apparent in the soft sand and I feel a certain irrational kinship. There is evidence of others, too, off-roaders and shooters. The evidence of their passing is not so subtle and I feel no kinship to them, just disappointment. Certainly, we're all trespassers. After all, if you don't own the land, then you're trespassing. But I'm pretty sure that there are degrees of offense. A hierarchy, I suppose. Some of us leave mere footprints as evidence of our passing. That's got to count for something in the Book of Judgements.
The Wine CommonSanta
Tip of the glass to Carolyn for coining the term: Wine CommonSanta
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