Riverside Cottontails (Part 3/4)
(From Boyhood Tales)

The rabbit burst
from the brush,
raced across the flat,
and with spurts of dust
at every hop,
shot up the slope
of loose rock and shale
as if a sixty degree climb
was nothing at all.
Twice I fired,
twice I missed.
He stopped;
looked back at me;
this time I aimed…

A hundred six,
that's what they predicated;
I think one ten,
maybe,
in the shade.
I looked up the slope
where that rabbit lay,
god,
what a climb
on a day like today.

I didn't like killing game
that I didn't retrieve,
something in me
that said,
if you're going to kill it,
use it;
that meant going to get it,
even if it was killed
in the heat of the hunt;
when any other day,
you  would have passed
on the shot.

Thirsty,
dry as a bone,
even sweat doesn't show
in the desert sun;
up the slope I went,
shale and stone,
slide a foot
for every two
I advanced…
jeez this is dumb.

Halfway there,
gasping,
panting,
I have second thoughts…
let the damn thing lay;
but no,
I'm gonna get it
if it kills me.
It's a matter of principal now.

Finally I'm there…
messy shot,
right in the gut,
knew that when it screamed
flopped around,
then died.
Yuck,
gut shots stink awful
when it's this hot,
and can't stick it in the bag
this way,
need to clean it…
or leave it.

I slit it open,
pull everything out,
let it fall to the ground…
damn,
a pregnant doe;
six babies
on the ground,
got seven in one shot;
Damn.

I buried the babies,
under the shale
and loose rock,
put stone
on top,
didn't want coyotes
digging them up;
don't know why,
just felt that way.

Slide-walking
back down the slope,
I saw rabbits
in the mesquite below,
but nope,
I was hot,
dry,
and somehow,
I felt so alone…
I got in the car;
I headed home.


w. james beard, jr.