Shit.
You're right.
This morning I took a shot
At the doe
Just out of ear shot, crossing.
I used a huge caliber
From so far away,
Yet,
She took my hit,
But ran all the same.
I knew where the cross was,
I knew I was still.
I knew I had practiced
At paper until,
I knew I could kill.
But,
But I couldn't know,
She wouldn't say,
If now were her day.
So I sat,
Wrung my hands,
Sweated my sweat,
And waited with my pride.
And hoped and waited
Then happened to see,
Smatterings of blood in the weeds.
To some, the finest,
Not knowing.
Not seeing it, death,
Is good enough.
For me though,
I need to know,
She's just not here;
I want to know
I did that--
That I made her mine.
What makes a hunter special?
Well, I shot a doe through the falling snow this afternoon too.
I am five foot eight and a half and weigh 137 pounds.
The doe I shot is seven hands high, and weighed, oh, 125 pounds.
And that's what makes a hunter "special."
I dragged *that* doe to the truck, in the snow, after sunset, all by myself.
Tethered to a rope, behind me through snow, creek, and mud, I pulled her to the truck.
She weighed 90% of my body weight.
More or less.
That's what makes it a sport I guess.
Could you drag yourself a quarter of a mile?
Your spouse? Girlfriend?
With an eight pound rifle over your shoulder?
Bundled from head to toe in green polyester?
The whole time I was dragging her I was thinking,
"This is what no one sees or thinks about,"
The thirty minutes of torture,
The burn in the legs,
The bite of the rope over my shoulder,
Wrapped around the off hand.
Burning lungs, chapping lips.
And hating that shot.
That made me hump,
Made me schlep
And sweat in snow...
damn...
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