The Evening Fawn

I walked down into the southern most field of the 300-acre farm wearing tractor grease stained blue jeans, my dirt shirt, and my brown leather boots holding my .300 caliber rifle. The sun was going to set soon and I knew it was the perfect evening to pop a coyote or two. Mother Nature’s breath was calm, the dew was beginning to nestle its way into the cottons of my clothes and the thunderhead rolling over the hills south of me, was beginning to move away. The heat of the day was beginning to dissipate in the deepest valleys and the hay field mixed with Clover and Brassica was now in the shadow of the glowing sun.

            I take a quick second to glass the field to make sure my prey isn’t already there. I gently walk along the upper end of the field looking for a good place to post for the evening. After finding an 80-100 year old oak tree with good ground cover, I decide my silhouette will be broken up enough to spot my prey before it spots me.

            As the dew sets heavier, a yearling fawn appears by the woods line. Not a coyote, but perfect coyote bait. As I watch this fawn feed in this 30-acre field, I begin wonder what I’m doing with this rifle, perched up on my legs, overlooking the vulnerable animal. Am I hunting coyotes for sport? Or am I protecting this falls harvest of venison?

            My vision is now minimal, and my clear view of the yearling is blurred at best. Its adorable white spots are now smeared in with its innocent golden fur coat. The shuttering sound of an alpha-male coyote howl intimidates me to tighten my grip on the rifles stock. The rolling hills and valleys of the southern tier are now filled with pup yips and barks. Tonight I am the protector and the hunter.