Long Term Parking - Part 9
In spring, under the warm amber light of a late afternoon sun, farm boys would cruise slowly down the narrow roads in an old, beat-up pickup with a giant “CHEVROLET” stamped into the sheet metal tailgate, laughing and drinking beer with their rabbit guns hanging out the windows. Some would ride in the back of the truck, and with all the rifles it looked like an angry and hairy mole on an old and bitter woman’s chin. They would patrol the fields of young corn and wheat and soybeans and clover, hunting rabbits, which multiplied furiously to dine on the vastly increased supply of food. The boys would shoot the rabbits in the head, and often, not always, but often, the rabbits would jump as if jolted by electricity, as if the main spring of their life had sprung, and their bodies would bounce and flop madly, until the shredded synapses in their brains quieted, and the boys would whoop in complete satisfaction.
