Jack of Harts

I grew up on summer mornings drenched in sun. I walked through knee-high cornfields filled with noisy crickets, and forests that went quiet at the sound of cityfolks laughing. Sometimes I could get them to shut up for a few minutes, to stop moving and to just wait. Then the forests came alive with the sound of animals going about their day. That was a day in the life of a tour guide for rich cityfolk who didn’t know the rear end of a cow from the front. Not that I spent a lot of time with them either. I was a wildlife guide, not a farmer. Give me a guitar, a campfire, and a pretty girl or two, and I would happily take an entire family out into the woods to send them straight to sleep under starlit skies with some gentle strumming of the strings. It was a good life. It was heaven.