So one of the master composers over a hundred years ago creates a piece of music, to wit, anyone then, yes anyone even now, hearing it, and a caveat here, without knowing the title is struck with the sensation they're somehow listening to a musical composition, that the music played, compels them to think they feel birds flying. Musical number entitled, the flight of the falcon.
Now the composer somehow arranged notes, with intricate care, then fed to a conductor for symphonies to perform until he thought it was perfected. Little did he know the success of his creation and how long it would endure the tests of time? That's a man with a plan. That's teamwork. That's success. That's hitting the nail on the head.
Now let's say there is another guy who didn't have a plan, aint gonna come up with one too quick, and is hanging on for dear life and the guy running this dog sled wouldn't know a flying falcon from a frozen fish stick at these speeds.
In retrospect, I never thought I'd jump out of a perfectly good airplane way back when, and I sure as heck never imagined I'd ever let myself get talked into running a team of four footed husky's that don't care what I say. I shouted at dog butts for a half hour and they didn't care. No notes from my hoarse throat would get them to stop. They know a team is ahead of them and there only thought is to get to the mutts in front of us.
The guy who put me here, maybe a half hour ago, said its nothing, lean once in a while, and just follow me. I used to like him a lot. I liked him less and less the longer I had to try and hang on. Rushing along, hanging on with locked fingers, trees seemed blurry, but suddenly, I thought I heard more dogs. There ahead in a clearing, the unmistaken sight and sound of a chorus of furred rugs all howling. Amen, the dogs stopped, which stopped me. All those stopped dogs, sounded pretty good.
The trout whisperer
