He had hunted here hundreds of times. These woods became his in grade school. He knew he would never leave them for long. The fading light added a quietness to the first chill of the coming winter. Now almost an after work ritual, these short hunting trips hardly ever yielded any game. Still, they served their purpose.

Since his mid-forties he had used only a bow and arrow for hunting. The silence of the kill was part of the reason why he no longer owned any firearms. Other things were involved. He knew that. You never ask those questions however.

A soft gray-brown movement stopped him forty feet from the opening to the small pasture. He eased loose an arrow and, in one motion, positioned it in the bow. His shoulder and arm muscles strained without a quiver as he drew the bow and string apart. The cold cord pressed into his lips as he sighted past the razor blades an arms length away. Once again he choked back a sob with the fluid release he had perfected over the years.

He never speculated on such things however.

About the Author

Gerald Cannon

I growed up po and ignant in Alabama. Then I went off to college and became a socialistic atheistic business school grad with an MBA. Not wanting to add evil capitalistic bastard to my resume, I obtained an antidote degree -the MFA. What a difference a letter makes. Now I teach college and make art. That's more fun and I'm less prone to drift toward the dark side. So, at the advanced age of sixty.... I have chosen mind over matter, joined the League of Defensive Pessimists and have no better answers, only fewer questions.

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