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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required 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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