The Hunt

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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





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