The trip took some time because the road was slick with snow. I had been invited to a hunt to shoot large game and drink a lot of booze. I had a beer in the backseat. I had never been to a hunt before. I had never shot a living thing. When our car arrived the camp was dead. The campground had turned in for the night. I unpacked the trunk, stored all the guns, and cracked another beer. We were up before the sun, my brain was tired. My legs were stiff as wooden boards, but it was time to kill. We drank some more before we left to kill the cold. I wore a fur hat with orange ear flaps. We took our time marching through the woods. The snow crunched under foot. I led the pack because I walked fast. Probably because I wanted to leave. In a clearing of trees We finally found: A buck, a deer, and two small fawns. I lowered the sights and took the shot. The bullet missed its mark. And now I know we drank so much to numb our minds. The three that lived ran off. “I think I need to go,” I said. The walk back out felt bad. I had aimed for horns, killed the mom, And left two fawns for dead. My lethal intent had gone astray And left me feeling blue. Being responsible for things you can’t change can cause a lot of pain. I think that’s why Jesus had a thing for wine. On the ride back home I didn’t drink. I sat in the back and tried to sleep. But, in my head I kept replaying the shot that made the doe drop dead.
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