Dressed in leaf green in our blind
we could drink only water. My father
said a sharp buck could smell any other
substance for miles. I was hungry
for biscuits swabbed with butter,
but he promised I’d learn to savor
the hunter’s breakfast that follows
a clean kill—eggs over easy,
sourdough rolls and more
sausage than any wolf could wolf
down. We sat so still we might be ivy
or buckbrush. “Keep your safety
on,” he said. “When the red spot shows,
you are deadly.”
I had slipped my one chilly bullet
into the chamber. Why would I want
to end the life of any sleek creature
who was not my enemy?
But this was man work, and my
school friends already spoke
about the loud crack and blow
to the shoulder, hot blood on the cheek
and the smile photo after.
I had sworn in silence I would refuse
to squeeze that trigger,
but then between my rifle and never
ever the deer stepped and fell.