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“I want you to listen to me very carefully, Shade. Those two people are the
only reason you’re still alive. I know you’ve got that .223, but if you keep going up on this trail you’re
going to hit some long meadows and then open areas above the tree line, and when you do you’re
going to feel an itch between your shoulder blades, a .45-70 itch. That’ll be me—and it’ll be the last
thing you ever feel.”
Word Image:
"I remember my wife on those trips, mostly with her hair tied back with a bandana, as she dutifully
breaded the fillets and carefully browned them over an open campfire. I remembered the closeness in
our double sleeping bag and the smooth soles of her feet as she attempted to keep them warm by
pressing them against my legs."
Sound Image:
"Even as cold as it was, there was still a discernible amount of water dropping from the rocks
above; of course it was smothered under a two-foot casing of ice, but the dull thudding of the falling
water pounded a rhythm and I settled into a comfortable pace."
Haiku:
I was able to follow their tracks,
before heading into the timber,
checking the early morning western sky for stars—