Trodding the gray slag piles the green hills along the sluggish stream. With pumping wings the dove flew in barely distinguishable in the haze. Place and custom seized me I rent the air with burning powder - the dove plummeted. Tangled slope startled water there in a bowl of grass wings outstretched shaken from life a bead of brilliant blood upon its head. False predator risking nothing taking all. This was sacrilege.