Gutshot

Stump moved quietly over icy terrain to his spot and set his bipod. He'd been watching he edges of the clearcut for deer for weeks.

He was struck and thrown backwards, a shot echoed. On his back and stared at the sky. Bleeding.

Shot. Close. Nobody coming. On purpose? Who? Why? I'm just an old man.

He watched the light dim when it should lighten. Sirens? Or just beautiful wind… perhaps he’d rise again.