In upper New York, from Bullet Hole Road to the dirt road to the train, I walk by the red-painted barn faded to pink. I am startled to see in plaid flannel shirts and high laced leather boots, two hunters, one with a shotgun broke open carried across his left arm, the other hunter armed with a new-fangled crossbow and long arrows, or bolts ending in razor-sharp tips. I hear the snap of the bolt action releasing the arrow through the dust of the autumn air, and plunging into the velvety hide of the unsuspecting buck bending head to drink in the burbling rill.

Abruptly, chest tight

The urge for retribution

In private hunt preserve