It was a chilly autumn morning, the first time I killed a deer. Before I pulled the trigger, the deer seemed to be fleeing with a desperate, almost human awareness of its soon coming fate. I could see the fear in its eyes, as if it knew exactly what was about to happen. In a last ditch effort, he ren, his hooves pounding against the earth in a frantic rhythm, trying to survive the inevitable.

My heart was racing in unison with his, a drumbeat of life and death, predator and prey. The forest that should be peaceful, now echoed with the haunting sounds of pursuit and the impending finality of my hunt. It was a moment suspended in time, where the world seemed to hold its breath, watching the unfolding tragedy of man and animal.

The cause of the deers efforts were clear, it was my first time killing a deer. The weight of the moment seemed to press down upon me, an unspoken understanding that this act would change me in ways I had yet to still understand. As I watched the deer disappear into the woods, a part of me fled with him, lost in the depths of the beautiful green forest.