His hands are calloused and torn,

browned by the sun as always but

now they are stained red with blood

Silent, he grips

the butt of his rifle with one hand

and a dirty cloth with the other

Twisting, wiping, polishing,

checking the chamber,

cleaning the barrel

The forest is an aquarium tank,

tinged blue with filtered light

and alive with swaying trees and creatures that scurry

"What have you done?" I ask him

as he sits admiring the gleaming steel,

hands still red

He startles and looks at me—

holding up his prize, he says

"I've cleaned my rifle."