Old Buzzard

The turkey buzzard sat high in the crown of the tallest pine tree.

I watched him through the rising mist. I studied him for a long time sitting up there with the fading sun shining on him above the forested lake.

He was a magnificent bird, really. He was an old man. His head and neck were completely devoid of plumage. His leathery skin shone in the sunlight.

Though the distance was great I imagined that I could see his yellowish, beady eyes staring straight into my heart, reading my intentions.

I took a deep breath, and slowly let it all the way out, pushing my diaphragm up with my belly muscles, then gulped down another deep, slow inhalation.

Imperceptably I began to let it out as the old vulture spread his wings a little, pumped his neck, and settled deeper into his perch.

He was a good 300 yards away, and 150 feet up, in fading light.

Tricky.

Gently I stopped breathing.

I had been steadily tensing the muscles in my right hand, squeezing more and more firmly with my finger.

The rifle bucked suddenly against my shoulder.

The large bird folded his head up beneath his wing, as if to go to sleep.

I followed him through the scope as he fell, striking several branches along the way.

I lowered the weapon, cleared it, and put it on safe.

The old buzzard tried to shake his head, but couldn't for the neck brace. He took another sip from his bottle of Crown.

"You just lost another $100 boss." I said.

"You're a bastard." he replied.