I am the duck hunter.


I am the paddler breaking through the cattails, making way to a duck blind that calls my name. I am the anticipation in the hour of darkness that unravels into legal light. I am the steadiness, the readiness, the call and the shot as wild wings descend upon the decoys.   I am the hunting skills passed down by generations of duck callers and wing shooters. I am the spectator hidden by camouflage as Canada Geese spell V on a flight that plays the soundtrack of fall. I am the face towards an autumn sunrise that feels like an exclusive show. I am a vow that wetlands will always have my volunteer spirit, and my voice, to protect them. I am a name on a duck stamp and license fees proudly addressed to environmental action. I am the fascination for iridescent feathers, studying the profound artistic perfection of the mallard, wood duck and teal.  I am the quality time I promised a special hunting buddy, sharing a morning in the marsh as we whisper our observations of nature at work — on the water and in the sky.  I am the passion that comes from waterfowl hunting pastimes. I am conservation.

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