The dawn sun was rising over the Brazos River on a crisp fall morning. The change in the air had called the oaks and pecan trees to start to shed their summer coats, and so they did, each trying to outdo their neighbors with quilts of soft reds and brilliant oranges that were only made fierier still by the first rays of dawn which broke through the branches and silently snuck up on the little blind that was set up on the side of the lazily moving brown water, which lapped up against the bank as casual as the sunrise itself. There we sat, until finally the notion was brought up that maybe the ducks were just as interested in enjoying the morning from the ground as we were on that morning, and that it was getting to be time for work anyways.

Andy Hatfield was a man of God. A farmer, a hunter, he could call ducks as well as you or I could call a good friend on the phone. However, it seemed that this particular morning, they were sending him straight to voicemail and it had put both of us in a quiet pensive mood. We packed up the shotguns and whiskey, and he lit up the so called celebratory joint we had rolled for after we had reached our bag limit for the morning. He took a long pull of it and outstretched him arm to me and said, “No reason to waste this beautiful morning over a few fowls not wanting to die.” I laughed and grinned and took what he had given me. I filled my lungs with the cold fall air and exhaled, knowing well that the fog was not just from the November chill, but from a series of events that morning.

We scampered up the side of the little river valley that the water's slow march had made over time and started walking down Highway 60 to work.