EARLY NOVEMBER

6 0 Y E A R L Y N O V E M B E R D E V I N J O H N S T O N Overhead a wood duck sounds the dark, its whine a thin rise and fall, a vibrating column of air, a call that could be carved from walnut or osage cut along the Meramec and fitted with a reed to draw down the real duck from wherever it was bound. Now it glides among the reeds and through a raft of decoys, red eye of morning set in an iridescent whorl. ...