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13 clay pigeons Even after a man yells pull and the mesh door of the cage flaps open, they squat immobile, dull gray and sculpted in the suburban mist, their signal to flush more private than this place— three miles past the skeet range, doctors in Filson coats drinking cans of beer and peeling hundreds off a roll. To win, they drop the bird in a circle chalked on the ground. Always, here, you’re a boy among men, feathers warm through your gloves, each hole a bead of blood. Always the men shooting, talking, the words just widening clouds of breath, and you outside the ring, reserving judgment, waiting for a sign. ...

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