Hovering Precision

Today I drove the car into a bank building. It was a simple error in judgement and as that type of situation makes me uncomfortable, I feigned unconsciousness while the bank patrons spilled out into the street to see what was the matter. While I sat there with my eyes closed and head back, I had a vivid memory of being in my grandfathers hunting shed. I watched as he used a tweezer to carefully extract #4 buckshot from a quail he'd brought down in his hayfield. He whistled the tune to Over the Rainbow as he carefully dropped each tiny piece of lead into a deep mason jar.

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.