Hunting

Frigid, Fool moon lit February night perched upon the side of large oak twenty feet up, in a hunting tree stand. A twelve gauge Remington pump action shotgun loaded, waiting for the first of our kill resting on my lap. Justin, Ryan, and Brain in the back of a Dodge four-dour pickup fifteen yards to my left. All wielding respectively, a forty-five revolver, an Austrian Glock nineteen, and a Thompson forty- five, alert in an unprecedented state of silence. Waiting slightly sober yet reaching my limit of boredom smoking relentlessly. When are the fucking coyotes going to get here I wonder, they keep nabbing Bobby’s horses that’s why were here apparently.
Bobby, Justin’s mom recruited us for this journey to try to protect the farm from these pests. I really just wanted to shoot something thus the tree stand and shot gun, somehow I managed to convince Brian to allow me to use his. Filled with buckshot to compensate for my horrible aim, although I’m still convinced they were blanks. We wait, but nothing ever happens, seems to be a repetitive theme in hunting. Wait and never shoot, almost a waste of time, yet the excitement keeps you coming back. Just the thought of the hunt and possible kill will never get old.