The Hunt

Though I’ve hunted many a time

It makes me want to sit down and cry

When I remember the creature

I shot that managed to crawl away.

I was climbing a hill that sunny day

When from a pile of well-dried hay

Flew a grouse of plumage gray

I raised my gun as I often have

and drew a bead on that bird.

I squeezed the trigger,

The gun roared

and from the barrel BB’s poured.

The shot hit the target but not too square

As feathers flew

I knew I got that gracious bird.

To my surprise my astonished eyes

Couldn’t find that bird.

I knew I had hit him but finally realized

That he had crawled away to die.

I left that hill sorrowed inside.

  • Donald Arthur March 31, 1968