hungry hunting season

Their cars are parked all along the highway between here and town, where there are forests and ponds and places where wildlife like to hang out. I don’t know it they’re after the four-footed or the flying, whether they’re hunting for supper or sport. I hope that they will eat what they kill. That should be the way of it.
I had venison once. It was cooked by the hunter who killed it. It tasked fine but somehow, well, I just couldn’t enjoy it.
They make seasoned buckshot now, you know. Well, it isn’t real buckshot; rather it’s very hard pellets of seasoning, so you can flavor your bird before you even get around to plucking its feathers. How’s that for convenience.
Maybe if I had to hunt and gather, I wouldn’t eat so much. And then there’s all the exercise that goes along with hunting and gathering. I guess I could go out and live in the forest. But with all of those other hunters out there I probably wouldn’t last long.
I have always been hungry. Only before this, I was able to find lots of ways to fill myself with satisfactions other than food.
I can smell the sweet bread baking in my bread machine.

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