A memory for future use: In the distance, farm buildings top the rise and a shiny new barbwire fence demarcates the pasture farmland. The mowed ground extends to the point where woody plants maintain their foothold on steeply angled water carved slopes. As pasture begins blending into wilderness, thorn bushes take root defending their patches of dirt. We climb through the fence and Dale hopes the farmer remembers giving him permission. Taking turns, we empty clips into the descending hollow behind the wild roses. Each shot an explosion of sound demanding attention. Percussions with reverberations and consequences as the fence nicks the palm of my hand on the way back out. That little slice of flesh, slight and shallow, becomes a seven-day souvenir.
