The Cry
It was in the shudder of their wings. The hidden omens of their presence could be found in the black gaps of the night; small openings of birch between the snow-lined white pine branches where the birds stooped in search of their next meal, curious eyes as deep and wide as the barrels of his shotgun. This small opening was all he needed. As natural as the violent panicked flutter of the barn owl’s wings before it took flight, he held his arms up steady, movement minimal, almost mechanical. His fire was efficient, and it took no less than a single bullet to rid the now-flightless creature of life.