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His finger slowly navigated the cool smoothness of the barrel, noting the tiny scars from the heat of exiting bullets. Ignoring the click of the trigger or safety that satisfied so many generations before, he wanted to feel where the lead last lived, much the way children centuries ago would stroke arrowheads, summoning their power and mystery, wearing them down to a polished sheen—too primitive to be dangerous or used again. He had heard the stories from elders—of man’s relentless brutality unleashed until the birds sacrificed themselves, falling, falling, awakening us through a ballet of plumed persuasive pain.