Off to the east-south-east during the first suggestions of a dawning day, several gunshots rang out this morning. It must be bird season again and the remnants of the summer corn in the fields to the east-south-east are a natural lure.
The shots were irregular: "BLAM ... BLAM-BLAM ... BLAM ... BLAM-BLAM-BLAM.
It's one thing to "line up your ducks" in life, but life's ducks and geese are seldom as accommodating as aphorisms.
Like the squirrels burying their nuts as winter approaches, I hoped vaguely that the hunters were filling their freezers against a foodless season. A hunter who hopes to care for his family makes some sense to me. Abercrombie-and-Fitch hunters, the ones who hope to aggrandize themselves ... well, bleh!
On the other hand, shotgun pellets take their toll irrespective of intent. Dead is dead, as the soldiers in Afghanistan and Iraq and wherever all else know ... and the line between "right" and "righteous" only makes a difference to the one who consents to examine.