A loincloth will be next

Suburban Man
Paused on a hillock, the man rests his hand on his hip, the other shades the harsh, setting sun from his brow. From this vantage, he scans the wide expanse of grass that is green, rich, with spring rains. The slight wind smells green.
His dogs lie and watch as well; one next to him on the hill, stretched on her haunches, alert, the other a few feet ahead, her mouth open in a head-bob of scent-gathering.
Game moves in the distance. He picks up his staff, blows a near-silent command to the dogs and begins the stalk.
Heads down, muscles compacted, the dogs slink through the tall grass. The man follows, crouched. He clucks and with a wave of two fingers on his left hand, sends the dogs into a rapture of slick power, a hunter’s run.
The gray squirrel chatters its displeasure as it jumps from the ground and ascends higher into the oak. The dogs circle the trunk in opposite orbits, one whining, the other looks up hopeful the squirrel will lose its purchase and fall.
The man laughs, falls on all fours, gathers one dog, the other in his grasp. He roughs the fur on their neck, lets his fingers work into the muscles along their spine.
He puts his back to the trunk and wipes his eyes. The suburban landscape returns, the new asphalt streets, the gray-white of the new concrete gutters and sidewalks. The four model homes in four stages of construction. He looks to his own home, the lawn green with spring; he registers the chipped paint on the eves from winter storms.
He longs for simpler times he’s never experienced; time locked into his reptilian brain.
The wristwatch chimes the hour and he stands and sighs, brushes of duff from his jeans, thinks about dinner. He spies the stick he has been carrying.
Somewhere on the walk, he’s absentmindedly sharpened it to a fine point; a hunter’s point


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