The Hunt

April 28, 2011
More by this author
I slowly pull back the string
An arrow lays gently on the rest
The broadhead gleams in the sunlight
Soon to be painted red
A deer strolls into my line of fire
A mature, 6-point buck
I decide he needs to die
I take aim through the sight
Align the dot with his shoulder
I breathe in, calculating
Waiting for the perfect opportunity
Snort to make him stop
And release
Clean pass-through
Both lungs have been eviscerated
He doesn’t run far
Blood’s spewing from his side
And he falls with a thump

Post a Comment

Be the first to comment on this article!

bRealTime banner ad on the left side
Site Feedback