There is no absence of sound as the hunter pulls the trigger: a breath shuffles from the black Labrador, its tail making waves in an ocean of reeds; water drips from the hunter’s glasses, bursting against the wooden stock; a bird’s wings whisper in the sky, a trailing song in the wind.
There is a click, the faintest sound of the hammer striking the shell, and all the sounds of an early morning are eclipsed: not by the shot flying through the air, but by the roar that races alongside them.
There are silences after that roar; silences of wind, and water.
The hunter watches the bird fall from the sky. He waits for the splash to carry across the water and whistles, once. The Labrador is already gone, heaving its path through the water and reeds towards a bird that lies in a mirror of the sky.
The hunter lays the gun atop his jacket, taking no pains to hurry, for he knows that he will have enough time to dry the barrel, to clean the stock, to reload the chamber, all while the Labrador is searching. He will sit and watch the sunlight flow across the water until his companion returns.
When he returns, the Labrador will set the bird before the hunter. It is no longer a true bird, not really, because the fall to earth has reduced it to a shapeless mass of beak and eyes, flesh and feathers. The hunter’s eyes will grow soft as he lifts the bird. He will turn it, study it, wondering at the flesh, the down, the feathers, and etch the sight of it flying through the air into his memory. He will hold it to the thin denim of his shirt, plucking shot from its wounds until his fingertips are bathed in blood and water, until he is ready.
The hunter will lift the bird’s head, open its beak, and let a few drops of water run down its throat, down its chest, and wash away the broken feathers. He will run his careful fingertips down its neck, down its chest, and reshape the flesh, lay the feathers smooth again. He will run a hand across its back, his fingertips painting a splash of red here, a dab of it on the tail feathers, and he will give shape to the shapeless. He will run his hands across the wounds and fill them with water,
He will lift the bird, warmer now, from his jacket and hold it before his eyes.
“Gentler climes, my friend,” the hunter will whisper, and he will spread the wings in a pantomime of flight. “Gentler climes.” He will cast the bird into a waiting sky.
The pantomime will become real.
The hunter will do this once, twice, a dozen times today; just as he has always done, just as he will always do. He will sit on the shore or stand in the water, always listening for another current of song, borrowing seconds to give far more in return.
But for now he sits, quietly thinking about what may come as he dries his stock and barrel, watching the sun ripen in an early sky.
There is a click, the faintest sound of the hammer striking the shell, and all the sounds of an early morning are eclipsed: not by the shot flying through the air, but by the roar that races alongside them.
There are silences after that roar; silences of wind, and water.
The hunter watches the bird fall from the sky. He waits for the splash to carry across the water and whistles, once. The Labrador is already gone, heaving its path through the water and reeds towards a bird that lies in a mirror of the sky.
The hunter lays the gun atop his jacket, taking no pains to hurry, for he knows that he will have enough time to dry the barrel, to clean the stock, to reload the chamber, all while the Labrador is searching. He will sit and watch the sunlight flow across the water until his companion returns.
When he returns, the Labrador will set the bird before the hunter. It is no longer a true bird, not really, because the fall to earth has reduced it to a shapeless mass of beak and eyes, flesh and feathers. The hunter’s eyes will grow soft as he lifts the bird. He will turn it, study it, wondering at the flesh, the down, the feathers, and etch the sight of it flying through the air into his memory. He will hold it to the thin denim of his shirt, plucking shot from its wounds until his fingertips are bathed in blood and water, until he is ready.
The hunter will lift the bird’s head, open its beak, and let a few drops of water run down its throat, down its chest, and wash away the broken feathers. He will run his careful fingertips down its neck, down its chest, and reshape the flesh, lay the feathers smooth again. He will run a hand across its back, his fingertips painting a splash of red here, a dab of it on the tail feathers, and he will give shape to the shapeless. He will run his hands across the wounds and fill them with water,
He will lift the bird, warmer now, from his jacket and hold it before his eyes.
“Gentler climes, my friend,” the hunter will whisper, and he will spread the wings in a pantomime of flight. “Gentler climes.” He will cast the bird into a waiting sky.
The pantomime will become real.
The hunter will do this once, twice, a dozen times today; just as he has always done, just as he will always do. He will sit on the shore or stand in the water, always listening for another current of song, borrowing seconds to give far more in return.
But for now he sits, quietly thinking about what may come as he dries his stock and barrel, watching the sun ripen in an early sky.