January 25th, 2012 
PermissiontoDream 
He wondered if he would or could hunt again. The jungle had taken n unseen toll upon his heart and way of thinking with regard to killing. ‘For man to kill man is not.’ He was startled out of his meditative mood by a stabbing in his back, a pain he’d carried from the jungle in the form of shrapnel un-removed.
Perhaps, if there weren’t seemingly mindless hunters-to-be out there, to make that single, remorseful mistake with an indiscriminate Daisy air rifle, there simply wouldn’t exist, the sweet, melancholy songs of sparrows? He believes that today, but didn’t back then when the bitterness Bird Feeders of the kill seemed so ugly, so pungent to his tastes, so hurtful to his young, then innocent heart.
Song of the Sparrow Everyone who hunts or has hunted vividly remembers that first kill; first gun and first dose of the always familiar, remorse. Feelings and tastes are bittersweet in nature for the hunter and almost ever hunter’s first kill is a bird and not usually a game bird. The first gun is often times a Daisy lever-action- a formidable .177 caliber…
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