Sitting with It

I am sitting on a plastic bucket, tucked into a hedgerow of sunflowers and goldenrod and bluestem grass, a sliver of the real Great Plains eking out an existence on the edge of a cut wheat field.

The wind is constant. This is the prairie, after all. Blowing a steady 25 miles per hour, the roar robs me of my best asset while dove hunting: my hearing. I al…