The mist sat low over the marsh that morning.
The mist sat low over the marsh that morning. Not thick—just enough to soften the edges of things. I had gone out before first light, as was the custom. In old England, a duck hunt was not rushed. You moved with the land, not against it. Reeds whispered as I stepped through, slow and deliberate. No sudden movement. No noise beyond what already belonged there. The birds were out on the water. You could hear them before you saw them.