As I march through the fields, doggedly tracking deer, and the applause assured by a handsome rack, I trample countless plants, with absolutely no regard - not unlike a rutting buck thrashing a sapling or bush. These are the casualties of obsession.
But when the bucks outwit me on home turf, I find myself turning to the subtle frequency of a "chick-a-dee-dee-dee", harvesting breakfast from a plant I could have felled with a single step. Suddenly, the world beneath my feet is now the kingdom at hand.
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