Duck hunting. Day one. Wake at 4:30, dress warmly and drive to the lake. Watch the sun glow on the horizon, and at 5 a.m., aim the gun at a duck flying blindly toward the dawn. A hit, and the duck falls into the pond. From flying through the air to a diving death, the duck never knew what happened. Feathers plucked, breasts removed, marinated, wrapped around jalapeños and grilled. Two small bites of dark meat. The duck breasts, cooked and consumed, can't equal the glory of the duck, teal-blue feathers, black head, flapping its wings toward a beautiful day.
