Killing A Loon  I'm walking with my housemate Stephen Ramos and our classmate Harry Melner towards a swamp where there are a lot of duck hunters hunting. We're on a blacktop road. I see several hunting parties in the swamp wearing blaze orange. Someone in one of the parties yells, "Sluuu", and I realize this must be one of my friends Bubba Hacker or Jose Ramos, in a party in the swamp. We stop at the edge of the road and the swamp. There are many ducks flying overhead. There is a triangle in the sky that is lighter in color against they grayish background of clouds. The ducks swarm down. There are a lot of ducks on the water. Someone gives a yell, and the hunters rise up and fire. It seems like an unusual word that one of them yells. Ducks fly everywhere, but remain in the area surprisingly long, flying around. A loon flies directly at me, really low to the ground. I grab its feet and swing it around, smacking its head against the blacktop repeatedly. I think it must have been hit by one of the shots. I see blood on it: it appears to have been hit on the left rear side. I hope that I killed it by myself.