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29 tarnation When the goose fell dead at the bus stop, it was not quite dead (the hunter having taken a high shot because the goose would not decoy, the spreading wad of bismuth pellets shattering only the left phalange, barely piercing the breast), so when a plucky girl broke semicircle of wavering boys, reached to hoist the bird in her arms, its black head shot out hissing, its good wing flailed Icaruslike (though the children knew nothing of him yet), fanning gutter trash until the chocolate Lab arrived (stretching with each purposed stride the neoprene camo vest, scrotum bouncing, toenails clicking ridiculously on the cul-desac sidewalk) to clamp his jaws—after a brief scurry, stutter-flight—around the pillowed shoulders of the goose that was still not quite dead. Shotgun shouldered (afraid so), the hunter soon appeared, a tad portly, knelt and pried bird from beast’s mouth, stroked the tooth-torn plumage, scratched his good boy behind the ear. Then twisted the bird’s esophagus shut, stepping back from the throes as the bus (yellow, lethargic as a swath of mill-tinged dawn) climbed, crested the hill, and coasted to a curbside stop: its driver surveying the scene (Tarnation), releasing the brakes, filling the poised air with a collective gasp. ...

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