The Hunters

by James Salter

The rice paddies south of Pyongyang looked like cracked icing on pale French pastry.

The sky was empty except for the fading traces of contrails, left like ski tracks in blowing snow.

As his eyes fell upon one person or another, he saw them with a clarity such that he would never forget what they looked like, and only seconds later as his glance moved on, he could not remember at all.