FIRST TIME

The boy looked up only for a moment, then hurried his gaze back down to the prize - as if it might disappear. In that one glance up, the boy's eyes glistened at the edges and his mouth opened slightly as if he might speak. But he had no words, nor did he need them. His father knew.

The boy inhaled deeply, savoring the oily aroma of his new .410 side-by-side. He held it like a hard-won trophy. In many ways it was. He had followed his father and brothers to the river, stepped in their long strides, sat in the cold, rust-scented goose blind for two years without protest - at least little complaint for a ten-year-old. He sat listening while his father and two brothers whispered of approaching flocks he could not see. He marvelled as the three of them opened up with a primal song, natural and undeniable. The honks and clucks and purrs and drawn out, almost desperate, come-back blasts would remain a part of the boy's dreams forever.

With the steel and walnut balanced in his too-tight grip and his jacket pockets, filled with shells, slapping against his hip, he paused. He had been there before. Much of it familiar - the clean breath of morning, the quiet secrets of the river, the unseen chirps of nearby songbirds. He had been there before, but this time was different. This time he held the gun. This time he was part of it. And once he pulled the trigger, he could never turn back.