The Duck Blind

Every autumn in the Chaos Mountains the wind blows through the tall grass & the rain stalls, fitful in its sublimity. It is not a season for speaking. Only for listening. Out there, somewhere beyond the horizon a silence that is not silence, calls, & men enter the duck blind, and wait, huddled with their cartridges & ambiguities, disguised to themselves as hunters, re-inventing themselves with rifle eyes fixed on some vanishing point beyond the language of rivers & trees, turned away from the here & now - a tempting non-existence accompanied by hope, which may be nothing more than the promise of a big dinner with lots of stuffing and gravy and no questions.