I never thought I would be a girl who would enjoy hunting. And yet, when that young bull walked galantly out from the shadows and I hid behind the willow bushes as my darling aimed his gun- something happened. It was such a beautiful, big animal. Graceful and confident. I didn't watch as it fell- I never do. One thing I cannot bare to see is the life of something leaving it's body. But it fell not ten seconds later, and I didn't feel the ache I do when a swan lands in front of me or a fish is pulled from the net. We hiked up the bank to view our winter's sustinance. I knelt down and felt the back of its head. I do with every animal. To feel its third eye, its soul, and to tell it that I'm thankful for the food it is giving me. Its ears were so soft... so warm... and I got lost in the traces of the fur. Some time later I turned to look at the eyes. It was so odd, something I have not seen in geese or fish. This young bull looked at peace with death. It's eye was open, not mad or sad, but rather hopeful. Staring directly into the blue sky as if it was ready to go and content with the fact it had been respectfully and honourably taken. And it whispered to me that it was okay- that it was happy to be taken in this way and that his life would live on through the memory I behold of him and his small uneven antlers.
