Hunting. The Complaining Woodcock

Woodcock hunting - Tradition has it that a lighter Queen is pressed the more she becomes a ghost, but the challenge is launched and the wood, while complaining, cannot take away the pleasure of picking up that glove.

The sun already warms what the full moon had cooled. Entering the wood, painted by the brushstrokes of the tall black trunks of the trees, bent at times by gusts of wind, one gets the impression of hearing their lament. Squeaks, creaks, then creaks again, are the bare peaks that caress each other following the rhythm of the wind. On the ground long furrows filled with water to mark a path that goes forward, the memory of woodcutters and their loads of trees torn from the rain and the wind. Tea trots professionally, now to my right, now to my left, her nose high looking in the air for smells of hunting you know. Then I see her follow a stronger one, stretching to the left.

He stops it, marked by the most anticipated sound, but immediately interrupted by Regina that, nervous, leaves flying low and far. This was the beginning of a fight that lasted the whole afternoon and was won by the mischievous Lady. Immediately the mind chases past experiences and examines and evaluates the present looking, excited, the thread of a possible victory. Tradition has it that a lighter Queen is pressed the more she becomes a ghost, but the challenge is launched and the wood, while complaining, cannot take away the pleasure of picking up that glove.

Armed with desire and passion, Tea, and her hunter, then begin a methodical and patient search to find the next garage, and again discover, after the emotions of the case, that she has already left. The heat is so fresh that Tea is sure she is still busy, but the disappointment of emptiness does not dissolve the unbridled passion. And then more slowly, almost hiding behind every tree, we continue to find the elusive Lady.

Ghosts in the woods, which, complaining, creates like a soundtrack in our search to pick the flower that we are so passionate about. Each time, when we get close, we already see it in flight that still escapes us, without the shotgun being able to interrupt, with its thunder, the lament of the woods and the escape of the Lady. Fifteen times we find it again, and fifteen times it denies itself flying away. Exhausted, but happy, our gazes meet and it seems that in unison they decide, leaving her alive is now a must, she herself has chosen him with her tricks, and then as good companions we resume the path home tired, defeated but no regrets.

The wood with its moans seems to approve, but just then the fairy reappears, flies safely along the path above us, comes to meet us, perhaps to tell us that she is not really tired. Two thunders start from my cold reeds when it passes over our heads, they are not to kill, but to give the honor of weapons to the one who gave us magical emotions in an afternoon playing with us among the laments of an enchanted forest .