My Father Took Me Hunting because we had given up other ways to make music. The white hummingbird of buckshot is not melodic, but neither is silence. What I recall I recall scarcely. Like a sostenuto hanging so faint it may not be there at all, I could convince myself this is just resonance. To this day I forget the aurora of gunsmoke gathered over a rabbit. Pink slime wetting the dry pages of what he explained was now more fertile ground—this is not what I return t