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"A Silence After The Shot " 
by Dennis Murawska

Off to the east, a rosy glow signals the beginning of a new day. A slight wind stirs what few brittle leaves cling to a nearby branch, and the sound momentarily grabs my attention. A raccoon ambles down the trunk of a hollowed oak to my left, while nuthatches pick at invisible specks of food. It is not a cold day, just a perfect one, as perfect as any opening day can be. Snug on my stand, there is a certainty I will see deer this morning. On this day, there is no sound of measured steps coming through dry leaves, just a slight something in the periphery of my vision that was not there before. Sure enough, a pair of does is making their way out to the field of winter wheat. Best to wait. The rut is on, and a buck is almost certain to make an appearance.

Out in the field of green stubble emerging, the does now feed, joined by a decent buck. They seem edgy, but then, when do whitetails not seem nervous? Suddenly, something startles the group, and the two does head right for my stand. They are not at a full run, but a steady trot, and do not make their usual stop once inside the woods. Directly below me, the first passes with the second not far behind. I am not certain I will take the shot, but swing the iron sights along with the deer. Just as it passes and is quartering away, everything lines up, and without a thought, the shot is off.

The hit was a clean one, but I wait in the stand for awhile, watching the wary buck sneak back across the wheat field down into a creek bottom. I wished it had been him dashing past me stand, but was satisfied nevertheless. The squirrels settled back into their endless shuffling through the leaves below, while I sat and contemplated. The first rays of sun began to filter through the naked branches, and the woods were quiet once more.

Calm once more, I clambered down the tree, and after a short walk came upon the deer. From the outline, I could see it was not a large one, but that is how the game played out. For each year of my adult life, I have repeated this scene, at least once. There always comes that moment when, like at a funeral, one must confront the dead. As much as I love the hunt, I must admit to feelings of vague remorse. There before me is a being that was alive one hour ago, going about its business, perhaps enjoying the day as I was.

In spite of reams articles and data having to do with the necessity of we humans managing deer numbers, I can't help but feel a twinge of sorrow. The time a deer lives compared to my own is so short. In the grand scheme of things, so is my own life. I know well deer do not often die of natural causes. There is starvation, predation, and death on the roads. This end came quickly. Still, I wonder about its comrades, and project my human qualities on them. Were the two siblings? Will its partner lie in its bed of brush tonight somehow aware of something amiss?

It seems to be the perception of many that hunters may be a bit on the callous side, at least when it comes to the harvest of game. In truth, I will wager most feel the same mixed emotions as I do. It simply is not possible to stand above one of God's creations, realizing you have just ended its life, and not stop for a moment in hushed reverence. Before you lies perfection. Sleek, swift, and splendid, it is magnificent even in death. From here, the deer will begin an unceremonious drag out of the woods that sustained it. For now though, I must pause awhile and listen to the cardinal above my shoulder, and breathe the fresh morning air. It is one of those times it is difficult to reconcile the reason that brought me here to the somber feelings that envelope me now. How short a time we are all on this earth. How precious each moment. What a new start, and end each day remains. I pause in homage for a time, reluctant to return to what will be the rest of my day. I feel a strange kinship with this animal, and all that have gone before it. They give me more than sustenance. I can only hope some of the molecules of my own body will someday feed the grasses and herbs that are browsed upon by the descendants of this wondrous creature.

About:

Denny Murawska is a Wisconsin resident and has taught science for over 25 years. From young on, he has been a scrounger of woods and waters, searching for rocks, edible plants, and any animal he could catch to eat, chase, or just watch. The early years as a high school teacher in Collbran Colorado introduced him to a culture of similar folks, as self-sufficient they get. The adventures there and students who guided him to their secret spots, provided books worth of wonderful adventures and misadventures with the colorful culture found only in the remote mountain town.

Now 51, Denny still teaches, while at the same time devoting more and more time to his great passion of writing and wildlife art. He is owner and operator of Angler's Art Fish Taxidermy, specializing in high quality fish replicas. Writing began back in high school, with mostly sappy poems. Actually, it was poetry that got him going as an outdoor writer. Having no idea where to publish outdoors poems, he turned to James Dickey, a literary icon, perhaps best known for the movie Deliverance. After some encouragement from him and others, publication in the New York Quarterly was a heady experience. Since then, writing consists of outdoor- oriented essays for The Week newspaper, Wishigan Outdoors, Outdoor Notebook, Breakthrough, and a number of literary magazines and websites. Someday, all of these swatches of life will be quilted into a book If I can do half the job Gene Hill did, it will be one that warms the souls of anyone who worships the waters and wilds of our outdoor world.

A Silence After The Shot  
by Dennis Murawska