WILTZ: Do you believe in biorhythms?
It was late in the day on the pheasant opener. John and I had taken his pickup to the east side of the cattail slough to block for the small army of walkers who were plodding toward us through the swampy mire. A high-flying rooster was coming my way. I put the bead on him, swung forward and touched off the shot. He crumpled in mid-air and piled up near the truck.
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