Wings whistle overhead. No one dares move. The old wooden call can only get out a greeting call before the birds are locked on to the set. They swing big, turn and glide down. Their wings cut through the air. Take em. Shotguns ring. The smell of murky water is replaced with gun powder. A young lab exercising the utmost of her self control looks over to confirm her hopes that there's birds on the water.
Fetch 'em up
