The dog dropped on point somewhere in the wheat, leaving a void in the place he had been. A moment before, there had been a wind-blown Belton setter there, a brushstroke of blue roan from nose to tail-tip, his flanks awash in green stems. He’d had scent in his nose and it had absorbed him entirely, tugging him closer to the genesis of all good things–in the mind of a pointing dog, that is. All of a sudden he flattened into the stubble in an old-world allegory of the hunt made real. Just then something tore loose in the frame: clattering wings and a smudge of brown darting left, and then a pop and a tumbling descent. The blue Belton setter became central once more, with a bird limp in his mouth. He dropped the little body into Agustin’s hand, and received the praise he was due.