The Shack Above the White Pines

A wisp twisted out the rickety chimney. An old can stood on the gravel and my six-shooters slogged chunks of lead right into it. Every time they spat the old can jumped. The can was Parker brand, I remember the blue paper label was half worn away. On the gate, a blackbird stretched its wings feather by feather. My brother sat cross-legged. He looked down at his hands and said, “There’s a can over yonder.”