I thought, at first, that it was dead. It was just laying there in the grass. Even when my dog almost stepped on it, it didn't move. Even when she almost pooped directly on top of it, it didn't move. Even when she started kicking dirt all over the place, it didn't move. I was also surprised she didn't notice it. But there in the grass was a huge horned lizard. As I stared down at it, an ant crawled across its eye. I squatted down to get a closer look and, indeed, there crawled a tiny black ant across the lizard's eye. I was sure, then, that it was dead but then its eyelid moved, trying to squeeze the ant's prying mandibles away. Still, my dog didn't notice it laying there. But I was fascinated. It blinked a few more times before the ant finally gave up trying to get into its eye and crawled across the lizard's scaly face toward its nostril. The lizard opened its eye and we both watched the ant try and crawl its way into the lizard's nose, but the
I was young, then, with a vivid imagination and marked dedication to playing make believe. We walked down the row, scattering rocks and dusting off the silhouettes. I tossed aside a chipped, white stone. Years later I would recognize it as limestone and even develop a certain fondness for it. When all of the iron silhouettes were standing again, we made our way back across the field through the brush. It was something between a tradition and a routine, lost in the limbo of recurring events. Almost an hour of driving into what seemed like void desert terrain that somehow escaped suburbanization outside of the city. I grabbed a handful of bullets and loaded the rifle. My rifle. A gift my father had given me, a .22 long rifle. I set the rifle down on the table, safety on, and stepped away. We always had fun, but there was a very serious undertone about the whole ordeal. It was unspoken, simply understood. It's fun, but it's not play time. Respect the weapon for what it is. A w