I wait until the flock separates to forage and peck, then focus on the larger of the two Toms. His head — what an impossibly small target it is, and within it, what an impossibly small brain that must be pierced by the shot — is in my sight. I cock the hammer, steady my left hand under the barrel, take a deep breath, and curl my finger around the trigger.

Then I freeze. I can’t seem to will my finger to action. I crouch there for a long moment watching the Tom through my squinted eye. Then, abruptly, I stand up. The birds catch the movement and run for the woods. Maybe I’ll try again tomorrow morning. Or maybe I’ll drive down the hill and buy one of those nice plump California turkeys with their smooth featherless skin and their big, clean, empty body cavities. I remove the cartridge from the chamber, walk into the house and carefully place the gun back on the highest shelf in the cupboard.

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