No one is entirely immune to this fear [our own inevitable death], yet we hunters are men and women who deal death in a very personal way. I have stared into the eyes of hundreds of birds, scores of rabbits and dozens of larger animals as they lay in the dust dying. Their eyes hold mine fast, forcing me to look full in the face the consequences of my actions, forcing me to remember what it is I do. What all life does.

Again and again and again, I see my own death in the eyes of that jackrabbit, or duck or deer. And I am afraid. I know not what lies beyond, nor does the animal I stand over. All I know is that someday, the dying eyes will be mine, staring at a doctor, or a lover. Or the unblinking sky. It is a searing moment that feels like staring at the sun in a windstorm. It leaves me gasping.

But then it passes. The rabbit moves no more. I inhale. I notice the birds are still singing. There is a fly buzzing somewhere. Life continues, at least for me. And at my feet is an animal that will soon feed me and those I love.

~Hank Shaw, in his blog, To the bone.

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