Duane slowly maneuvered his truck around the curves. Just one load of logs before sunup and Jenny’s teeth could be fixed.
He slammed the brakes! Facing him was an effigy of himself—dangling from a branch.
His heart pounding, Duane noticed movement in the semi-darkness. People cocooning out of sleeping bags surrounded his truck chanting: “Cutting trees kills owls. Cutting trees kills owls.”
He fingered his gun, knowing he had to turn around.
Safely home, Duane sat—half praying, half cursing.
“Daddy, Daddy, look what I found,” Jenny shouted. “May I keep him? He’s so cute. It’s a tiny baby owl.”