Beyond my shadow, I could see the outline of a pheasant tail protruding from his game bag. Stories must sometimes be lived before their truth is understood. In retrospect, the symbolic significance of the shadow was in the story it revealed. The story of an English setter working a cat-tail slough, heavy laden with Thanksgiving snow. Then the successful point, a nervous approach by the young hunter, the heart-skipping flush, a single shot, and my son's first pheasant.
Life seems to be a continuum of firsts.
After the shot, he ran to the downed bird before the dog could retrieve it. From a distance, I could see him kneel beside the pheasant and gently pick it up. He handled the bird carefully, as if it were a piece of fine crystal, its bright, iridescent feathers sparkling even in the dimming sunlight. He seemed mesmerized by the bird's array of colors. When I reached the scene, he looked up at me but said nothing.