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Show 211 car doors open and shut, glimpsed his father and his son heading off across a meadow. The Charger's motor was still running, radio still on. Waylon Jennings or someone who sounded a great deal like Waylon Jennings was singing a song about ". . . traveling roads." Hunt started to cry. For no reason. The motor ran, the radio unwound its lonely cadence, voice and guitar, and Hunt, shaking, embraced the steering wheel, tried to pull it to him. He was past his stop. That's what it felt like. He had fallen off, daydreamed, whatever and gone past his stop, had not gotten off. Past destination on an empty train. Then, somehow, Sean and his father surged into sight. They were a football field or more away, trying to approach two bison to photograph them. "Oh, shit!" Hunt said, and he nearly kicked the car door open. "Don't!" ' he started to yell, across the currents of sunlight, but then knew he might only startle the bison. People were gored! People were mutilated every year doing just what his father and his son were doing. And so Hunt ran. Moving across the wild meadow, Hunt snatched up a branch. Somehow, if he had to, he would use it to distract a rage, reroute the fiery-eyed, the encroached-upon bison. Hunt the rodeo clown! He wanted to shout, but he couldn't. Sean and his father were within twenty feet. And approaching cameras up and cocked, from the side. Didn't Sean know that all of a lumbering bison's strength is in its lateral movement: shoulders, head? Presumption! Presumption, presumption! Why did human beings believe that they could simply approach any power with enough craft, enough stealth, and simply snap an image, have it framed? Jesus God, Son; Jesus God, Pop: Away; away; you can't do this! |
