The snow was nice. The sun out. I could hear them long before I could see them in the thick ivy close to Fox Creek. Their hair was long and they looked black with shades of gold and brown.
It sounded just like a pig lot in Minnesota. They were enjoying life. At the crack of the rifle they scattered like under-age beer drinkers at a frat party. The bullets never touched pig flesh and the mast-eating piglets won't make it to my barbeque spit. There's always next year.
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