He’s a catfish, eating blood bait in the river after dark, eyeing the long line reaching skyward, the knot, the leader, the hook, chewing a chunk off the side before moving along.
He’s a blue jay. “Hey, get away! Get away! Get away!” he shouts at the calico cat from his nest in the red cedar tree. Then he calls out his buddies who come to his aid, diving and bombing, and scolding away, till the cat goes to look for a sparrow.
He’s a gambler. He’s got the odds on everything from basketball to soybeans. You can hear the trophies jingle in the pockets of his pants. He’s got the key. He can open the door. He can start up the motor. He can get it to go.
He’s a drifter. He leans on the bar, eying a bottle of bourbon and a tall cold frosty beer. “Hey!” someone shouts from a table directly behind him. “Hey, stranger! You like to fuck?”
“Yeah,” he says quietly turning his hand on his gun.