That morning the thrush on the highest branch sang like there was no tomorrow.
But now there was a worm. The thrush stood motionless in the grass. The worm was below the surface of the earth. Sunlight sparkled on the thrush’s dappled feathers. The thrush waited. The worm moved. The thrush poised to strike.
Johnny pulled the trigger of his slug gun. Got it! Yeah, when they were still like that they were easy to shoot.
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