St. Mary’s is a small, well maintained Catholic cemetery that sits in the shadow of a huge natural gas plant.
The cemetery and the San Juan Basin Gas Plant are surrounded by several other processing plants, and lots of houses. Knowing there are little kids living across the street from those factories makes me sad.
I wish everyone who wants to drill the whole country would come live here for a while first.
Rutting season only lasts for a week or so in the park. We separate and pace the fields around the westerly woods searching for antlers. A man with a dog tells us that spring is a better time to find whole ones. They’re at their strongest now and we’ll only find splintered pieces or broken branches. We only find branches. The dog also searches. Antlers are between sticks and bones, maybe a delicacy for dogs. The grunts and roars from the darkening forest are intimidating, and we see strange bird activity at dusk. The crows fly in packs and swoop in imitation of swallows. We see a number of deer rubbing their hormones on trees. It smells pungent on the narrow trail through the forest. I have the voyeur lens on my camera, and it brings them too close. I’m wary, despite parents beckoning their children closer with hands outstretched on Sunday afternoons. We watch the older ones almost lazily challenge the inexperienced slim-antlered younger ones, and we watch longer, arduous battles between grizzled angry grunting veterans. A harem of nonplussed females watches on the edges of the wood. One of the stags has splintered an antler and we search for it until dark in the field to the grunts and roars of the darker forest and the chock-chock-chock of locking antlers.