“Just eat the sucker,” said Jordan. Wesley held his peach up to the light breaking through the trees, perhaps imitating some affect he had seen at the sweat lodge—one of those hippies he had met. The bird returned in a swoop, fluttered, pulled and twisted at the peach, taking with it a chunk of dripping flesh and flew back to a bough somewhere. In the woods there was chittering, then a glissando whistle, a fall, a break in the song like a threat. The two men surveyed the canopy quietly, lost in wonder, silently enjoying the breeze that drifted through the clearing and cooled and dried their wet, bare backs.