- Joined
- Jun 4, 2002
- Messages
- 3,930
I've been a non-commissioned officer for right at twenty years, as long as some forumites have been alive, so it's only natural that I'm comfortable answering to "sarge". Well, I got to thinking about that and realized that when I permanently swap my boots and BDUs for blue jeans and such, that handle "sarge" just ain't going to be proper anymore. My mom and dad gave me a good name and I gotta start getting used to hearing it and answering to it. It's Greg (Gregory, with every syllable clearly enunciated if mom's ticked off, y'all know about that). So howdy guys, I'm Greg.
What about that Sylvrfalcn? Well, she's a bird that ain't a bird, that I see from time to time. It's always a comfort when I do, 'cause somehow, don't ask me how, I get the feeling she watches over me.
Once, while hiking in the late afternoon, the trail I was following along the river led me under some enormous cottonwood trees. It was apparently a favored roosting place for buzzards because every limb was thick with them, too many to count. It was like something from a bad movie being surrounded by that many buzzards in the gloom of dusk, their coarse croaking and wing flapping set my nerves on edge.
Just then I heard the shrill clear cry of a hawk, the sound carried an otherwordly quality that penetrated every corner of the forest. The buzzards immediately went silent and still, and my eyes searched her out and found her there perched on the uppermost branch, majestic and beautiful. The buzzards remained silent until I was clear of their grove, and I looked back just in time to see her loft into the sky on her powerful wings. The buzzards resumed their racket, and I hiked on with a grateful heart, secure in the knowledge that some things are much more than they appear.
Greg
What about that Sylvrfalcn? Well, she's a bird that ain't a bird, that I see from time to time. It's always a comfort when I do, 'cause somehow, don't ask me how, I get the feeling she watches over me.
Once, while hiking in the late afternoon, the trail I was following along the river led me under some enormous cottonwood trees. It was apparently a favored roosting place for buzzards because every limb was thick with them, too many to count. It was like something from a bad movie being surrounded by that many buzzards in the gloom of dusk, their coarse croaking and wing flapping set my nerves on edge.
Just then I heard the shrill clear cry of a hawk, the sound carried an otherwordly quality that penetrated every corner of the forest. The buzzards immediately went silent and still, and my eyes searched her out and found her there perched on the uppermost branch, majestic and beautiful. The buzzards remained silent until I was clear of their grove, and I looked back just in time to see her loft into the sky on her powerful wings. The buzzards resumed their racket, and I hiked on with a grateful heart, secure in the knowledge that some things are much more than they appear.
Greg