The Hunter

I have a preference for the hunter over the farmer. Until I meet some hunters of course, in their camouflage junk and bright orange acrylic caps, their only protection against wide-eyed novices with rifles who shoot at any deer with bright orange tails, if such animals ever existed.

So the holy Christian farmer and his Bible-toting wife are probably slightly less dangerous company, though that is debatable.

And the beer-swilling god-fearing country boy farmer and his dusty flat fields and government subsidies means not a thing when you are deep in the Amazon jungle anyway, with a group of hunters whom a settlement depends on for food and festivities. In this world, my preference for the hunters is real, in this very real of worlds.

In the jungle I too, am the hunter, and even in the forest where I live.