I’m looking through the scope 

She’s looking down the barrel.

My hands don’t shake as I hold the gun.

I cannot feel my toes

And when I curl them my whole foot tingles.

 

The trees around me keep creaking-

Their damn limbs won’t stop rattling as they bump against one another.

I can’t stop myself from panicking every time 

The wind blows and this stupid treestand sways.

 

Funny how when your sitting in the trees you don’t 

See beauty from a birds eye but the death you could bring

with the twitch of a finger.

 

My heart starts pounding every time the wind whistles,

Cause every time it whips against my cheek these damn leaves around me crackle;

Every breeze sounds like footsteps coming down the trail and then you expect me to aim a bullet 

At an animal's heart.

 

My fingers are frozen but I won’t climb down this ladder

Cause I can’t leave these woods till dark

And I can still see the silhouette of branches spidering across a purple-blue sky.

 

There’s a slight movement in the corner of my eye so I sniff a bit louder through a nose that keeps running.

Shift a bit more in a seat that makes my butt numb 

from the hard surface of three hours made up of

Just sitting.

Whisper “Please please please” a few extra times in hopes that that animal

Hears me and turns the other way.

 

Pull my hands out of my pockets and 

Grab the small gun you gave me with stiff fingers.

I don’t even know what it’s called but I don’t care.

When you ask me what I want to use,

I reply with “a gun that shoots”.

Push the black button until there is a “click” and I can see the red dot beneath.

 

Then I wait,

With a long gun loaded and pulled tight

Against my shoulder,

Breathing shallow.

I watch the animal slowly walk closer, sniffing the ground as she goes.

 

Every year I tell myself that I’m not going to hunt,

Not going to do it.

It’s cold, not fun.

It’s more a sport than a need,

We have money to put meat on our table

Yet you need the glory of putting a picture 

out on Facebook bragging about the 2-foot rack.

Every year I tell myself I’m not going to hunt but we both know it’s the only

Daddy-daughter bonding time we get.

We both know it’s the only way I get a “nice job” out of you, that’s when we find the poor thing laying on its side,

A body stiff with cold and a bullet in its organs.

So every year I tell myself, “one more year. I can do this. At least you’ll be proud of me.”

 

Well here I am again:

Legs tense with the effort to not shiver

Arms shaking but hands steady,

One eye squinting through a scope, the other closed tight.

My breaths come in puffy gasps

The three black lines coming together on center just behind her shoulder.

 

But as I take a deep breath

Her head jerks up and looks me in the eye.

 

I’m looking through the scope

She’s looking down the barrel.

Before she runs away I close my eyes and pull the trigger.

As she kicks and runs I fire again.

This time, when she jumps I know she’s just

Running to die alone.

I’m not happy with what I’ve done.

This death was not a necessity.

All I can think in the end is “At least you will be proud of me”