Deer Hunting

Jackson Cheramie
4:30 AM. Silent. So early
that the sun hasn't even had
its morning coffee. The
chilling winter air is seeping
into my cotton gloves. I rest
my ice cold pointer finger
on the trigger of the rifle as
I press the butt of the gun
against my shoulder. I lay
my soft white cheek on the
cold wooden stock, the
around in 	the scope
for 		a
until the scope focuses.

Through this
small circular
window pane, I
see the
beastly tall
pine trees dancing 
to the rhythm of
the wind, the tall
green grass scaling 
the mound beside
the dirt path,
the feeder, the
only man-made
object, appearing 
so insignificant
in the vast beauty
of the natural
landscape. I
turn the
rifle up and
gaze at the
purple sky. The
sun is rising
up above the
cloud pillows
to grace us
children of earth
with its warm
orange glow. A
smile opens up
on my face 
and my arms
loosen up.

Then my dad
taps me and
signals. My
arms tighten
and I
turn the
heavy rifle
to the
direction he
is pointing,
I can feel
the adrenaline
rushing. In
front of the
crosshairs is
the deer. Its
thin legs
amongst the
calm grass,
its infinitely
still eyes
like a black
hole staring
deep into
me as I
center the
on its
neck. It is
having a
a pleasant snack,
and soon I will
be having a
pleasant snack
on its flesh,
just like the
maggot that 
will have a
pleasant snack
on my flesh.