It is the end of December. I look outside and the lawn and trees are covered with a fresh dusting of snow. It is quiet and peaceful. I fancy I am a tracker from the time when hominids clad in animal skins would hunt grasping nothing more lethal than a flint topped spear or axe. I go out looking for deer, rabbit and fox tracks in the snow.
Nah. Who are we kidding?
Ranjan's Writings 