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Poem

I didn’t even know what type of bird it was - when I had to shoot to kill.

I left the comfort of my bed
on an early Saturday Fall morning
to enter the unknown - a nearby forest 
so that I could hunt with my father.

The canopy of trees further reduced the light from the overcast sky.
It was chilly, with a scent of damp moss present in the air
the ground wet from the morning mist.

I remember mostly silence
except for my breathing
and the sounds of my footsteps 
and those of my father - crushing twigs, branches, dead leaves, plant life, and living insects 
clearing the road 
for my rite of passage 
my childhood disappearing 
with every footstep.

The bird 
spotted by my father
a distance away
on a branch
of a colorful, majestic tree.

He handed me his gun
and gave me a quick refresher on how to hold, how to shoot, and what to expect.
The gun heavy
my arms starting to ache
my hands cold
and trembling.
And then I was told that I was ready
And so I aimed		
pulled the trigger		
and fired.

The bird remained motionless		
and very much alive.	

I fired once more.

Again
the bird, still there
unaffected
and at that moment I asked myself, if I would have to shoot again.

My father reloaded the rifle
and as I reluctantly took it from his hands, he looked into my eyes
and I wondered if he knew.

I fired again.
Again - I missed.

Then a fourth, and final time.

I returned the riffle to my father.
Nothing was said.
Nothing else was done.
I asked myself if one day I would be a hunter.

Before leaving the area
so that my father’s hunt could once again continue
I looked - for the last time - at the branch of the tree that once supported the bird.  
It was gone -  and I smiled.

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