The Hawk, the Snake, and the Mouse

Flash Fiction
By
Bryan Blake
984 Words
June 1, 2017

The Hawk, the Snake, and the Mouse

He or she is a field mouse. I’m almost certain it’s a she the way she goes in and out carrying nest material and food. Diligently and carefully, she darts, never resting, hesitating only to make sure it’s safe.

Unmoving I watch from afar, my son beside me. “Be very quiet,” I whispered. She moves quick, never venturing more than a few inches from her home, a simple hole in the ground, but to her a mansion, a safe place to raise a family.

A few feet away a four-foot garden snake waits and watches. Her home is several yards away and in the warm ground. Her children wait for their morning meal. Mother has been gone all morning and they’re becoming anxious for a juicy meal.

A mother hawk circles above. She too waits patiently for the right second to swoop down and grasp in her mighty talons the snake with the mouse still wiggling inside her.

 With the speed of a crossbow, the snake strikes, crushes the mouse’s head and begins to swallow the small animal whole.

The Hawk reacts, corrects her glide path and calculates her dive, too soon and the snake will regurgitate the mouse and slither quickly into the deep grass out of sight. If she waits too long the snake will slowly move back to her nest, disappearing in the undergrowth and grass.

At the exact moment, she dives swiftly, wings back, talons extended, she closes on her prey and her powerful wings then flap furiously sending her high above the ground, the snake hopelessly, twisting, turning and coiling about the talons that held her in a death grip.

I pushed my son to one side, raised my 12-gauge shotgun to my shoulder and squeezed the trigger. The hawk and prey spiraled downward out of control like a Japanese zero shot from the sky.

As we walked across the meadow, I placed my hand on my son’s shoulder. I could see my home in the distance and my chicken coup in the backyard. I was sure the hawk I had just killed was the one that had been eating our chickens.

 As I entered my back door and placed the gun in the corner of the mudroom, I felt satisfied, as if I had done a good thing. “It is well that we killed the hawk, son, it was taking food off of our table,” I said.

“That was a good shot, Papa. Will you teach me to shoot like that, someday?”

“Yes, son,” I said giving him a pat on the back. “Very soon we’ll go hunting together. Let's not mention killing the hawk to your mother, she hates to see or hear about the killing of anything. It upsets her."

“Okay, Papa”

*

I lay in my bed unable to sleep, the sight of the hawk swirled in my head. Was my son too young to see me kill the thing? No. He must learn young and the difference in when to kill and when to save. We will go hunting soon he has much to learn. Convinced I had done the right thing I drifted off to sleep.

We gathered at the breakfast table as we were in the habit of doing. My wife, Emily served me coffee as I read the morning paper. My son, Bentley entered the room and said, “Good morning, Mother, good morning, Father,” and took a seat at the table.

 We greeted our son, his mother and me. “How was your outing with your Father? I heard a gunshot. What were you shooting at?” His mother asked.

“I was just demonstrating the shotgun to Bentley. I should have taken some targets. Next time we will. We can set them up along the ridge beyond the creek.”

“Will you let me shoot the gun, Papa?”

“I’ve been thinking about that, son. I think the 12-gauge has too much kick for you. I’m thinking we might go to the gun shop and see about buying you a .410. It’s a good piece and doesn’t kick as hard as my gun. Then we can target practice together.”

“Oh boy, when can we go?”

“Don’t you have a birthday coming up soon?” His mother said.

“Oh, that’s right. Would you like a new shotgun for your birthday?” I asked.

“That would be the greatest thing in the whole world,” Bentley said. “I can’t wait.” 

“You’ll have to wait, son, but it not that far off,” I said. “Only another three months.”

“I’m going to tell Marcus when I get to school," Bentley said. "Boy, will he be surprised."

“It’s okay to tell him but don’t brag,” I told my son. “It’s not nice to brag.”

“You aren’t a bragger are you Bentley?” His mother asked.

“No Mother, I’ll just mention it and then act like I don’t care one way or the other.”

I nodded in agreement. “That’s a good way to handle it, I’m proud of you.”

*

On my drive to work, I pondered our conversation at the breakfast table. I’m rather excited about going shopping with my son for a new shotgun and to see the look on his face, as he tries to decide on which one he likes the best, then our trips to our private shooting range, the one we will set up on the bank across the creek. Bentley is growing up and I must help him all I can.

Kids grow up so fast and are influenced by everyone and everything, I have the responsibility to teach him at every turn and especially these times when it’s just him and me, together, practicing our skills with the shotguns. This is my opportunity to be a parent, a good parent. I’ll teach him about, The Hawk, the Snake, and the Mouse, things of life, and things of the real world.