The boy jogged through a field
ahead of his father who peered through
the low-lying fog from a nearby river

his shoulders hunched against the chill
of an early morning journey
to hunt doves-

the field echoed with the call of birds
that stepped amongst the scrub
and were startled into flight

by the blast of a shotgun
shattering the silence,
and finding its prey-

struggling in its death spiral,
plummeted like a stone
towards the hard ground-

yet when the boy picked it up
the bird weighed little more than
the air it had fallen from-

he had eagerly waited till his father
shot it from the sky
and now it lay warm in his hands-

he couldn't look away
feeling the heartbeat
flutter faintly-

fascination of the dove's death
gave the boy a sense of power
to spare a life, or to take it-

he twisted its neck with a soft pop,
the heart spasmed as
air was forced from its lungs,

then it rested, limp and lifeless
while he knelt upon the grass
quivering from his very first taste.