From the back porch he looked over his land, sloping away from the house, rolling gently towards the river, hidden behind the thirty acre wide swath of woods he’d fought to keep. Damn how fertile it might be. And double damn the money they offered. He sat in the rocking chair, setting his coffee on the porch railing, and rolled a cigarette from the tobacco tin he kept outside.
A white bob between the trees caught his attention. Then disappeared.
He thought about the fall, when he’d take his rifle and follow their tracks. How full his freezer would be.