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He
had us follow him and we hid behind the hedge. He whispered:
"I want you to consider what's in front of your nose."
There were bees, vertical files of ants, and the odor of decay.
Through the hedge, we saw a shimmering field, tiny cars that
whooshed beyond it, palm trees behind the cars, and a white
horizon past them.
There was a man in the field and his legs and khaki pants undulated
with the shimmering field. The far palms rattled, the field
got hotter and seemed to lap against the cars, like an ocean
against a causeway.
The man walked like a hunter and the hedge followed him, dragging
its roots, magnifiying the odor of decay. The bees fled, the
ants rummaged in the sweet uprooted place.
Meanwhile, the man raised a rifle and lowered his head to the
sights. He moved as if along a slot, sliding behind and in front
of shrubs, then shot and hit a bell, the bullet striking it
like a hammer.
The bell rang on into the night, when the field was brilliant
with lights and crowds shuffled about. Then he appeared, offering
us a plaster duck that he carried in white gloves. Its chalky
bill flaked orange, grew soft, and fell off. The body followed:
a soft but resistant owl, a mass of feathers, then many small
feathers caught by the wind and scattered among the fields.
--James V. Cervantes
(published in The Headlong Future Minneapolis: New Rivers
Press, 1990)
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