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 crosshairs dance around in the scope for a moment, swaying from sideto side, 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 standing amongst the calm grass, its infinitely still eyes like a black hole staring deep into me as I center the crosshairs 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.
