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THE HUNTER’S AFTERLIFE Ten bags of decoys nest in the basement; twelve rubber waders, like half-torsos, hang from the ceiling; shotguns fill two steel safes; there’s a duck call for every breed he knows. His pile of possessions constantly grows like sandbags to hold back the rising flood. Bury him with one of each, a pharaoh crossing to a happy hunting ground, heaven of frigid dawns, duck blinds, deer stands at dusk, where animals come to him without fear when he speaks the language he knows by heart, his rubber-coated waders grow webbed, wings spring from his sloped shoulders, or antlers sprout from his skull. Forgiven, he has no need of things to run with the herd or fly with the flock, and when the sun sets the swamp on fire, he runs faster, ascends higher. Such lightness, father, as you would never know on earth. VIRGINIA OTTLEY CRAIGHILL
Appalachian Review – University of North Carolina Press
Published: Apr 29, 2021
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