Much like watching a critically wounded bear in the wilderness of Minnesota snuff and puff, and pant and twist, and writhe in pain as the life slowly and methodically trickles out of it with each drop of blood, each breath becoming more difficult than the last, it’s soft, half-hearted moans hidden by the winter’s rustling leaves beneath, as it stumbles from tree to tree, down to its knees, until it eventually comes crashing down with an ungraceful thud that rocks the ground for acres, our season finally – FINALLY – died last night. And I, for one, don’t give a rat’s ass. (more…)
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Bear Down Baffa 