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The rabbit season had just opened, and we were all eager about the first day. Anticipation and excitement buzzed through the farm as the men got ready. At thirteen I was getting to go along for the first time. I was not allowed to carry a shotgun but would use instead a twenty-two scope. When we got started, it was barely light out. As we walked towards the first field, I noticed everyone's boots glistening with dew, and the bottom of our pants were soaked and filled with burrs. The sun was just beginning to show, and its soft warmth touched my shoulder, and I knew my pants and shoes would soon be dry. When we reached the field, everyone fanned out in a straight line, and for a few minutes they discussed our line of fire. When everyone was ready all talk stopped. Grandpa motioned, and we all began walking. About a hundred yards in, my uncle gestured, we stopped. He pointed at a spot about twenty feet in front of my grandpa and just to my left. Grandpa looked and then motioned me over and pointed. He said very quietly . . . "Rabbit sitting." I looked but for the life of me I could see nothing. I pointed my rifle at the spot and looked through the scope, sure enough, the cross-hairs focused on the rabbit hidden perfectly in a clump of dried brown weeds. Staring straight into the rabbit's eye through the cross-hairs, I closed my eyes and pulled the trigger the shot rang out, and the rabbit jumped. He sprinted off zigzagging to the left then to the right. Two horrendous blasts sounded to my left... the rabbit shot awkwardly to his right rolled and stopped. It's eerie how quickly death is recognized. I never went again.