The next day I decided to bring the hunting party their cut of the truffle action, and hopefully get some truffle-hunting lessons, too. The whole way there I heard a chorus of woodpeckers (or so I thought) echoing through the woods. It was almost like the sound of the squirrel knock-knock-knocking nuts into his cache. But this sound was more of a bang!-bang!-bang! Honestly, I winced for the trees.
When I got to Murphy's Christmas Tree Farm, there was no sign of the hunting party, or their camp. No sign of the pop-up camper, or the fire. There wasn't a single scrap of trash, or even a random chicken feather—at least, not that I could find. They were so thoroughly gone I almost doubted they'd been there at all. It was like trying to return to Narnia and finding only the back of the wardrobe.
As I walked home along Old Mill Road, I saw a team of men nailing signs to the trees every twenty or thirty feet (bang!-bang!-bang!). I wondered if a competing poetry/wild food farm stand had entered the market. But when I got a look at one of the signs, it said:
POSTED
NO TRESPASSING
VIOLATORS WILL BE PERSECUTED
(I'm not sure if that last part was a typo or what.)
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The Myth of Wile E
HumorHighest Ranking: #1 in Humor [FEATURED, SEPT-OCT] An idealistic poet refuses to budge from the last parcel of land a developer needs to acquire in order to build a shopping mall. (Literary satire with pop culture references and environmental theme...
