It's the slow burn in a shot of whiskey that sets my mind to rewind. I raise the glass to the mutt. Then I play the same old, in my head movie, over and over. I smell the day. I feel the wind. I see the clouds. I think of the sound of roaring wings.
Decoys working against stretched tethers, feeling those cold shotgun hulls in my coat pocket. Water foaming out in the main lake driving ducks towards the shore. Rafts of feathers lifting off the water and sending my senses to a state of duck nirvana.
Under my breath I hope them to me, to lift high enough to wing over my set-up. Some do, many loft, held suspended, stalled, then fight for flight, catch the wind and disappear like pepper flakes off the far horizon.