First Kill

Last night, I watched a documentary on Hunter S. Thompson.
In addition to writing, hallucinating, and starting gonzo journalism,
he enjoyed guns... hated the NRA (of which he was a member)... but loved guns.

It reminded me of my first gun experience:
Dusk in Montana...
bouncing up a mountain road after work.
The sun plummeted below tree-spiked ridge lines.

Pam propped the 270 rifle on pillows atop her car hood.
I remember bracing for the recoil, listening to instructions,
through stuffed ear-holes.

The trigger obeyed smoothly
And my scope encircled target briefly flamed...
Like a match...
becoming the sun in my eye.
BOOM - Boom -- boom the canyon announced.

I knew I hadn't flinched and ran to find the two holes I had punched
through cardboard
from 50 yards away.

"Getting one as soon as possible"
I noted to myself and grinned.

The twilight was all but gone,
Shadows spilled out onto the open ground...
pooling like rising water...
and all were shades of gray and black.

The last shot was mine,
and the cross-haired target was barely there.
I exhaled waves of an echoing Crack
laced with the odor of spent gunpowder
and then came the tiny white flakes.
From above
they floated all around us.

"Is it snowing??"

Couldn't be that cold.
Nope, it wasn't snow.

A tiny corner of the support pillow had reached up to block my barrel,
leaving the scope sight free.

Of course,
the hungry bullet ate through CAMO fabric with one jagged bite,
launching a sack of Styrofoam pellets skyward
and freeing them to cascade down in stillness.
Like so many snowflakes
or falling stars.

I bagged my first kill.
Proudly I strutted my prize
through the kitchen.

"Hey hey!" said chef Brian,
"Got a Grouse?"

"Nope"
I raised my trophy with flourish.

"I shot a pillow."