Dove Hunt It was a warm morning in Kansas. Trees were swaying but the only noise you could here was the beating of small wings on humid air. Across the field a hunter fired at a dove flying overhead, sending a clear message to all. Game on.
Every possible sense was heightened, touch, the feel of the turkish wood stock, the cold steel of the receiver, the rubber butt stock pressed agaist my shoulder. Smell, the sunflowers behind us, the gunpowder left in the air. Sight, trees all over, birds by the thousands, orange clothing beside m. Hearing, the slow heartbeat rise steadily as the birds sang towards me.
I was 12 years old and it was my first dove hunt. I was told about the hunt by my dad about a week before so that we could go shopping.
Every possible sense was heightened, touch, the feel of the turkish wood stock, the cold steel of the receiver, the rubber butt stock pressed agaist my shoulder. Smell, the sunflowers behind us, the gunpowder left in the air. Sight, trees all over, birds by the thousands, orange clothing beside m. Hearing, the slow heartbeat rise steadily as the birds sang towards me.
I was 12 years old and it was my first dove hunt. I was told about the hunt by my dad about a week before so that we could go shopping.