On my walk, today, I saw a bird rising vertically off the surface of the field next to me, and as soon as it started its wonderful song, I realised it was a Skylark.
I’ve written before about having killed a Skylark with an air gun when I was a young teenager. Every time I see one, I say sorry. The guilty feeling hasn’t gone away even after five decades.
Later in the walk, I heard shotgun fire from a nearby wood and found myself musing, yet again, about what makes someone set out from their home, on a beautiful, still, sunny, day thinking “I feel like blowing some beautiful animals out of the sky – for fun”
I mean really, what goes through their minds, both in anticipation and in the act?
The Obvious? 
i grew up in upland pheasnt/grouse territory and there were regular shoots for rich prople. My Dad, bless him never owned a gun, but he ws a farmer.
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Yes. My story, a nest of robins.
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