The wind is cold as we go out, he has attached a new scope to this old 22 rifle, my job is to site it in. Meanwhile he has a beautiful 444 Marlin rifle that he is siting. Someone has hired him to kill a buffalo for meat. His friend M. was hired to do the same for some Onondagas that have a farm on the outskirts of the reservation, they will go together to the farm. I am talking to him as I load 22 shells into the 10 round clip, I lose count. Shit, am I a felon right now I ask him, I lost count is it 7 or is it 8. I stop and just shoot with what I have in the clip.
The temperature is a surprising 45 as we drive out to see where this farm is, in my old stomping grounds. We talk about trout fishing as we ride up the curving road along the edge of the creek. In my head I am recalling the sweet taste of trout pulled fresh from the water, I want to go, I say, right now.
In the afternoon, I wash the dishes as I watch him boiling skulls in a big bucket on the veranda. I go out and take a few minutes to finish the last of a collage I am making to help raise money for my friends school in South Sudan. And then I take the cypress knob I bought from some guy at the stone tool show last summer. I proceed to doodle on it with wood stain pens. Until the sun starts to set, all peach and pink in the sky. My legs are cold, and my cheeks and the big toe of my left foot.
I have spent the better part of the last 7 hours outside.
I can almost feel the blues like cobwebs being swept out of me.