Shamanic
The rocks that ping against the tin sides of his home, like songbirds flying at windows, barely rustle the dogs. A twitch of a lip and a groan but neither move from beneath the cradle where their heads almost overlap in joined guardianship. He stands at the window, watching the two shapes below the mango tree, lobbing quarter-sized stones, light enough to make the distance but on the dying end of their arc, they just make the bottom siding of the shack, bouncing back into the black mud. He sees what they do not know, laid out in front of him like an picnic spread, and he plucks their intentions from the air like bees drunk with smoke.