A flat, hot day, and every small wind that stirs smells of dust. There is the sense that the sun has emerged as the victor of a war here, everything else weakly asserting its presence only after a tip of the hat to it.

His head sways and shifts as he tries to lock on to a small skitter of movement far ahead, as if his body is a receiver and he's trying to tune in to it. When he finally moves, the quickness of his body never betrays the importance of the line from eye to target, A blur, a violent shake of the head, and two motions of the jaw later, and it's back to scouting--picking among the remains of the sun's triumph.