A Track in the Dust

Lingering around the porch posts made the legs restless. I unlatched the wire gate and stepped beyond the yard fence, boots kicking up small puffs of pale dirt along the dry trail. Thirty paces out, an odd disturbance in the grit caught my attention. I stopped, grounded the stock of my rifle near my heel, and crouched low. A clean, round hoof print sat pressed into the baked earth, edges still sharp and unblown by the morning breeze. Something unshod passed through not long before me. I pressed my thumb into the rim to test the moisture, then rose slow and scanned the low brush ahead. Always pay attention to what crosses your path.