Who rakes the leaves in the forest?
When I began my November hunt in the Iowa timber, the brown leaves still clung to the branches. Over the next two weeks it rained leaves, shrinking the canopy and letting in a vague light from the overcast sky. And a question occurred to me, during those endless maddening hours in my swaying treestand, as someone who has filled a million sacks, burned a million piles, who’s going to rake up all these leaves?
Zenhunting 