Target on the Rim

Water displacement registered at zero-nine-forty. A common sparrow touched down on the birdbath rim, eight inches off my twelve o'clock. Full tactical freeze engaged. I lowered my chin into the burlap folds, pinning my boots flush against the wet river stone. The bird dipped its beak twice, sending concentric wake rings straight into my slate redoubt. Stray spray struck my heavy barrel shroud. I held breath count. Red ocular filters tracked the feathered mass without a millimeter of weapon drift. It ruffled, launched into the morning draft, and vacated the sector. The ripples flattened back into glass. Zero compromise. Perimeter held.