Charlie my friend, I ink this paper in a mood similar to that of the heavy gray slate sky that hovers over us today.
For six days now, nary a carp have I touched with my fingertips. The strange weather that has come our way has caused great difficulty on the pastures. The spring rains were welcomed of course, but, they blur the currents keeping us from our pursuit. When the rains subside, the winds come. Not whispering or whistling winds, but rather screaming wind. On this Friday that just passed, the settlements aqueduct failed sending a landslide of murky and muddy sediment-laden stew into our pastures complicating things more. All of this, along with the beeves heavily grazing, with their mouths close to the pasture top, have turned our creek into a mere beef tea or loblolly.
Despite all these difficulties, I did have several chances of lassoing the carp last week. I am in a difficulted state of being and have not the faintest notion of why these creatures now shun the grand offerings I bring to them. Perhaps it is simply a case they have come to learn that the gifts of supple feather and shimmering flash have a hidden sting.
The behaviour of the beeves we tend seems peculiar this drive compared to last season. The beeves are staying collected in communal form in the deepest of the fertile pastures. Few strays are being witnessed by these ever-searching eyes.
The beeves have me buffaloed Charlie. We've known for some time now that they are a persnickety lot, but we have come to admire their wit. And... it may be that sharpness they own that has me in a forlorn state.
It has come to mind to search for greener pastures. However this would require the prairie schooner and the price of pony feed reaches deep into the pocket. The steeds are ready, but in feeding their extra hunger I would soon be down to the blanket.
It has also come to mind that herders like us do grow late in our season where the sharpness we own begins to dull. I speak only of myself in this regard, because of the two of us you are the one that continues to hone your skills to a ever keener edge.
My hope is to receive a dispatch from you - one that will tell a grand tale of a lassoed beeve that comes to your near, where you will make your brand with the simple touch of your hand, where after the beeve will go back to the pasture.
Until such dispatch comes my way, I will stay here at the bunk with my propensity to tilt a bottle, or two perhaps, or more, reaching a state of being jingled.