No Singing

by Ken Wuetcher

The sun blazed.

The Ohio River 

Motionless.

I grabbed my BB gun

headed for the creek

to hunt dragonflies.

Looked up into the blue sky,

I saw a Robin

perched on a telephone wire.

Still,

reddish-orange breast

thrust out.

Quiet,

no singing.

My chest pounded like I

had sprinted through

the cow fields.

My trigger finger itched.

I recalled my friends

bragging about shooting birds.

They seemed very proud

of themselves.

I instantly wanted to

gloat along with them,

“Yeah, I shot a bird.”

I raised the rifle slowly,

aimed at the center

of his colorful breast,

pulled the trigger.

The Robin fell 

like an eagle diving to its prey.

Instantly,

swiftly,

breathtaking.

He disappeared in the 

pasture.

An eerie silence;

a chill ran up my spine.

What had I done?

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