Behind three bird dogs, two men walk up the middle of a gravel road, shotguns slung over their shoulders: a hunter and a poet trailing two ticked-up setters and an old grey-faced black Lab.

In southeastern Ohio, where I have lived since 1969 (transplanted from New England), ruffed grouse, my main hunting obsession for most of my time here, have become so scarce that pursuing them has become at worst utterly futile, and at best an elegiac exercise, like remembering the faintest strains of long-gone music, or the first kiss with Mary Lou what’s-her-name.

Ask any writer and they will probably tell you that it is substantially easier to write a complete novel than a short story or a component essay. I have recently learned the hard way that this axiom applies to film as well; it appears to be much easier to shoot and edit a full-length film than a short 90-second video.

In 1995, during a visit to Holland & Holland in London, I experienced what proved to be a life-changing event: I handled, for the first time, a Boss & Co. game gun from 1910.