A longstanding Tradition

I'd never been hunting before.
I abhor violence you understand,
But there I was,
Sitting comfortably in a tree stand,
Holding the surprisingly elegant tools of the trade.

A rifle,
Firing a 150 grain .308 round at 2200 feet per second.
A ten power scope,
A sleek window bringing the distant into sharp clarity.
And at last the deer,
Sitting still as a wax sculpture.
The gun was light as a toy in my hand.
The deer nestled in my sights like a duck in a carnival game.
I fired,
And the rest is history.

As the pin struck, there was an explosion.
The bullet was torn from its shell,
Ripping from the barrel in a mushroom of flaming gas.
It crossed the 800 yard distance in just over a second.
As it struck, it broke ribs and bruised flesh,
Expanding inside to shred delicate internal organs.
It missed the heart.
It took twenty minutes for the deer to bleed to death.

In the distance, I saw the deer fall,
Quick and quiet, like an extra in a silent movie.
I decided to leave it where it was.
I never could stand the sight of blood.