by underswansea


He carried the 30 30 by the barrel, over his shoulder, the butt dangling behind him. Like the folk stars carried their guitars back in the sixties. Back in the hippy days.

He shot once at a grouse, coming up the mountain, it was blown to bits. Too much rifle. That’s what his Dad used to say. He figured bad aim.

It occurred to him he should eat it when it was ripe, smoke it when it was ready. He wasn’t much for saving. His back was enjoying the sun. It hurt him to know it was on the down turn. Nevertheless, he looked forward to winter.