Was this it? All I had needed the past few months? The perfect stillness? Or did I just need to be seen? Seen right through without fear? I walked over to the edge of her pinions and a jackrabbit shot from under a saltbush and zagged off into the false twilight. Most of us are never seen, not clearly, and when we are we likely jump and run. Because being seen can be followed by the crack of a shot or the twang of an arrow.
Excerpt from The Painter
by Peter Heller