A Cold Hunt
Let's workshop this poem about a boy and his father on a cold morning hunt, where pride, clumsiness, and quiet love play out against the chill of the stream and the weight of growing up.
scent of the day: Antiquity, by Areej le Dore
Antiquity 2 is like a variation on vintage Mitsouko because of the old peach aldehyde he uses in the top: chypre souped up with Cambodian Oud and some patchouli. / Maksim’s Café Mystique is comparable but it is weaker, less macho / in few few minutes I was underwhelmed with Antiquity: it smelled a lot to me like Ambre de Coco, which I have. / But now this figment man like soil is rising, minute soil elements in here which adds interesting almost petrichor touch / War and Peace and Inverno blew me away right from jump. / Luwak and Antiquity probably need to sit and i need to smell them later. / dry down is a smoky dusty peach that makes it live up to its Antiquity name—although I would say, after only one wear of each, that (1) War and Peace better nails an antiquity feel and (2) War and Peace is my preferred scent—vying with Inverno Russo for my favorite in the collection
A Cold Hunt Dawn light feeble in the ashen sky, my father— head to toe in hunter wool of rusty red—carved a wobbly path for me over black-algae stones poking just above the tinkle of the icy stream. He looked back. “Watch your step there.” Confident I needed no babying, I slipped right where he was still pointing. “Fuckin Mikey!” Yet I was quick to show—shotgun submerged— I had saved the coffee. On my back I held it high. “It didn’t spill,” I insisted. Shivering at our tree (the gun drying upside down, my father blowing steam from the mouth of the Styrofoam cup), I was too ashamed to let my teeth chatter reveal I wanted out. He chuckled. “Fuckin Spikey, huh?”