To hunt pheasants in snow, father awakens evergreens hiding the fleeting of them, their feathers. He shatters the sane with insane, the blasting of branches of calm, to smother the madness of them. They burst like airbags in wreckage, without a formal formation, a disordered flight into death. He aims at the airborne, before the apex of one, opening its body to him, to behead. Blood splatters like a pureed sponge, a bird fallen by force, pumping red into white, by father’s pulse.