The golden rays of the newly risen sun break through the trees
to leave stripes of light and shadow on the yellowing soybean field.
Barely a ripple creases the lake as fog tendrils form and rise
and the crisp air is filled with the sweet sounds of shotgun blasts.
As Sophie and I walk, I wear my blaze orange “I’m not a duck” vest,
and we hear a rooster call in the distance warning waterfowl of
their impending doom. Sharp cracks and deep booms caress the
morning air leaving no doubt, that it’s hunting season.
As the fall wild flowers bloom with vivid color and the trees
turn to their beautiful foliage, the stench of blood and dead
birds fills our noses and minds with wonderful feelings
of sorrow at the death of beautiful creatures.
A breeze begins to blow bringing with it the sounds of
men and women in the fields, and along the creeks and lakes
reloading for another volley, raining death down on any
goose or duck that moves. Goddamn hunters.