Last Deer Hunt

It comes back to me in solemnity, and I wistfully wish it wouldn't. A willful case of killing it was— a hunter doing what he shouldn't. Father had taken me deer hunting, thinking to make a man of a boy. I prayed we wouldn't see a deer. and we didn't—not one—such joy! Daylight was dimming to dusk when he said our hunt had ended. We started down a rocky trail, and at a turn—we froze, suspended. A hunter was positioned to shoot, crouched, rifle cradled with skill. Target? A shiny-eyed rabbit happily nibbling a leafy meal. "Oh, don't," I felt to cry out, but then a c-r-a-c-k cricked the air. The place where the rabbit had been was as if nothing were ever there. "He missed," my glad heart sang; "the rabbit's alive and is all right." But the hunter's face was fulsome with a beastly, loathsome blight. As we came by the spot, I retched, the brush was garnished with gore. Father's silence tracked the truth; we wouldn't go hunting any more. How to conceive of such blood thirst— wanton killing as an act of gladness. I trust, however, for those so cursed civility will supercede such madness.