This is how we hunt eggs at our house at Easter.
We did the traditional dying of white eggs and left them for the Easter bunny. But after the dyed eggs had been found, a pile of candy consumed and dinner with the neighbors was finished, we spent the evening with the pheasants collecting eggs. Among Outdoor Guy, Wyokiddo and I, we picked up almost 800 eggs.
It was a beautiful March evening here in southeast Wyoming, with just enough of a breeze to bring some color to my bare cheeks. The pheasants serenaded me with their pheasant sounds, a weird cross between a cluck, a click and a purr. Huge flocks of Canada and snow geese flew overhead. Red-tailed hawks cruised the tree line. I could hear Wyokiddo and her daddy in the adjacent pen. Her little voice would rise in crescendo with each large group of eggs they found and Outdoor Guy would respond in his own undistinguishable tenor. And as I added more and more little brown orbs to my ownaging basket, I marveled at the miracle of this blessed and beautiful life I live.
This is my religion. Happy Easter.