The predator lies and waits,
Body still on the quiet ground,
Barely moving his eyes,
As he scans the scenery before him.

He catches a fleeting glimpse,
Of his victim,
As he moves about the grounds,
Like rats in a maze.

His instrument of death,
Secured firmly in his hands,
Range, elevation, windage,
All accounted for.

The weapon feels familiar,
In the hands of this professional,
As he reacquaints himself,
And preps his shot.

The stock is solid,
Pistol grip slightly course,
As he rotates the bolt,
And locks it into place.

An extended view,
Into the soul of the damned,
As he peers through,
His high powered scope.

Poised for the shot,
Finger extends to the trigger,
Thumbing the safety,
Slowing his pulse.

He asks for permission,
And receives his response,
To deliver his message,
On ballistic wings.

A crack of thunder,
Follows a vapor trail,
The message delivered,
His target crumbles.

Silence returns,
To this barren land,
As a profound guilt,
Overwhelms his heart.

He was only a kid,
And this was his first,
His dad pats him on his back,
Let’s go home son.