The pale avians show clear against the early clouds. They whirl and spiral on vagrant thermals, wing tips almost touching. They own the sky, strong winged and fearless while smaller fliers roost in the terran pines or cower in cliff scrapes envious of the giants’ claim. I watch from my hide in the pines, high above the dugouts where my fellow troopers wait, and I long for such freedom.
I follow their silent swooping, rejoicing in their no-sound dance, using my sighter to bring them close. Another day, I’d attempt a sketch, but not today. Today I wait, my trigger finger poised. Another survey of the terrain shows no movement. Perhaps the info was wrong, perhaps the rebels will not come this way. But if not here, where will they cross? They must break through, ford the river, escape the closing net ...
Extract from Watching, by JW Hicks
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