Brother Broken


The Duck Hunter...

Autumn descends on Saskatchewan with stealth and intent, encroaching on the prairie, leaving traces of colour. Beneath a cerulean dome, golden landscapes are dappled with orange and burgundy. A cool crispness emerges, like an itch that worsens with each passing day. Dropping temperatures quicken as time launches toward the season of frostbite, spurring a fundamental drive to prepare for winter.

Massive flocks of migratory birds obey an instinct to fly south. They converge on the skyline as the sun emanates the first and last rays of daylight. Feathered creatures descend in near silence. The faint whisper of wings fluttering announces the arrival. The birds navigate clumsy landings on a pond as their tail feathers skim across water, cutting a tiny wake.

In sharp contrast, their departure is a spectacular display. The push and rush of an aerial stampede becomes a moment worthy of the wait. Throngs of game complete the annual journey across the continent, and hunters lay low in the reeds to catch them in their gunsights.

Duck hunting was for John an escape to a quieter place, where things made more sense. He could contemplate life and find solace while lurking among the cattails and bulrushes, waiting for a cue from above. He fit in this space, inside a realm of contentment. Gone were the cravings for libations, even if only temporarily. At the end of a hunting session, he embarked on his own migration, back to the world of people.

John didn’t use specialized hunting gear. He pursued his craft with an old shotgun, shells, and grit, and he seldom arrived home skunked. My family anticipated the return of the duck hunter, his easy smile and stride announcing a good hunt. He carried home a string of dead birds tied together with rope. The birds dangled, slung from his shoulder, as he walked.

He dropped his kill to the ground and retrieved a razor-sharp hunting knife from its sheath. His skilled hands removed the choicest portions of the bird and presented them, ready for the roaster. Mom prepared a wild duck feast that satisfied cravings we didn’t even know we had.

Brother Broken

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