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Pulling the Trigger
My breath spirals up
into the cold winter air.
Beside me, a chipmunk
hunts for buried nuts and acorns.
Dad taps my shoulder
and points to down the rock ledge
that we have situated ourselves on.
I slowly lower my head down and see it,
an eight point buck is grazing on a clover patch,
its brown body contrasts with the
light green foliage.
I grasp for the rifle at my feet
and aim the cross hairs behind the shoulder.
Everything slows down as
I
pull
the
trigger.
BOOM!
I lift my head from the scope
And squint through the gray,
settling smoke.
A smile appears on my face
as I see the deer’s upturned legs.
“Nice shot!”, Dad says.
My legs start to shake,
having difficulty
with holding up my excitement.
I wish that everybody
could feel the way I feel..
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I wrote this poem for my love of the great outdoors and hunting.