Legal shooting time is upon us. Ducks begin arriving as if on cue. There are perhaps 200 in the first flock, mostly mallards. Waves of their brethren dance in the distant sky.
"Greenheads and pintail drakes," Hesby whispers. "That's what we're after. No brown ducks. No teal. And no wigeon."
I'm antsy. Ducks are fluttering over the decoys. The whup-whup of flailing wings is all around us. Three mallards land just to my left. A long-handled net could easily scoop up the trio.
"We better take some of these," Keller says, "because the tornado above us is getting way too big. We don't want to educate too many of them at one time."
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