When the man on your right hisses "Take 'em, boys!" everything happens in slow motion. You try to pick out a single body, but your brain registers a million moving things, and your first shot goes "up there somewhere." You don't feel the gun buck against your shoulder. A bird falls, then another and another. And then it's over. The blizzard of white that had encapsulated you is a gray smudge on the horizon. And when you look into the eyes of the old goose-hunting veteran beside you, you're amazed at his thousand-yard stare.