Brother Broken
Alf Reads to Ernie about a 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.
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