James had always admired his father’s stories about early mornings in the dove fields. Finally, his turn arrived, and he found himself in a quiet clearing, shotgun in hand. As the sky softened with the first light of dawn, his father pointed out the subtle movements of mourning doves Texas was known for—swift, unpredictable, and challenging to track. He steadied his breath, recalling every lesson about patience and precision. When the moment came, he squeezed the trigger, feeling the thrill of the chase. More than a hunt, it was a rite of passage, bonding him to generations before him.
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