Old Friend (Fiction)

The crisp autumn sunrise sees a familiar sight. Hunter and Old Friend lay in ambush on the swamp. Old Friend's muzzle shows signs of his age. Hunter's face tells of many days spent in harsh sunlight and wind. Days spent in rain and freezing cold.

All is still. Old Friend's breath billows white clouds which cling in icy rivulets to his graying nose. Abruptly, whistling and fluttering wings betray the approach of the quarry.

Tipping and wobbling. Dropping closer, closer. Then, as time and motion seem to stand still, they parachute in to the well laid scene. Old Friend shifts impatiently, a soft whine escapes him. Hunter is transfixed as the gathering light flashes from wonderful specula, tails and wings.

They are close enough now, and their red legs are reaching for the frigid water amid their conterfeit friends. But something is wrong. The oldest bird senses it and all follow his frantic lead as he strains for the sky. It is confusion for a moment, then it is over.

Hunter quickly understands he has just missed his big chance. He had forgotten his purpose. Or had he only just remembered it. He looks at Old Friend and their eyes meet. For a moment he sees recognition. A moment shared between the closest of friends. Hunter circles one arm about Old Friend, looks out and smiles.