Spying a lump, my fingers drag down huntress with a frenzy. Socket swallowing scope, my itchy index now belongs to an alien hand tugging back the trigger, as buzzards I didn’t see before explode out of their autumnal boughs, their movement reminding me of mechanical wind-up toys. Suddenly my heart is turbopumping and the air is electric, laced with the sweet pinch of gunpowder. I immediately lament the unnecessary expenditure of a bullet . . .