Song of the Milkworm

This morning I sat on a rise just above the transfer station with a pump action air rifle unloading round after round into a discarded pie tin . Anyone wandering by seemed to understand that this was my time, and I was left alone. At lunchtime, I made my way out to the orchard at the bend of the mill road and gorged on peaches and wild blackberries. I dozed for the rest of the afternoon in the blazing sun. An orgy of weasels woke me with their scampering about the low mountain path in a frenzied search for finch eggs.