The man was tall, dressed in camouflage, dead ducks clutched in his fist. The bodies were plump, the feathers thick and glowing.

He and a partner had exited the pickup, were heading for the house. There was a quietness in their movement. The birds, so fresh the kill. It was only noon.

A jolt, seeing both the still fluid beauty of the birds, the recency of their death.

Perhaps the men will eat the ducks.

Perhaps the knowledge of the swamp, the sunlit clouds reflected on water, the real-ness of the ducks’ last hours will inform their eating.

The men will know where their food came from, whose hands took the ducks from flight. They will eat sacred food.