"I haven't been hunting since I was a kid," he told me later as he polished the barrel with a soft cloth. "Can't even remember what it's like." He lifted his gaze to me. "It's time you learned too," he said, and I nodded at him expectantly.

The next Saturday morning, before dawn, we drove north of town. The farmlands that surrounded our town seemed to broaden and take on a pinkish glow to match the gradually brightening sky. We passed farms with slate-colored houses, pastures with horses poised still as photographs, and, behind them, the tall skeletons of windmills.

Dad had bought a green hunting jacket at the outlet store just for the occasion. As we drove, he told me it reminded him of the old army jacket he used to wear in the war.

"What happened to that jacket?" I asked. I'd seen the black-and-white World War II pictures of my dad, wearing his army jacket, leaning proudly against his jeep on the Burma Road.

"Don't know," he answered. "I guess I just lost it somewhere after the war."

When we reached the field, Dad pulled the Plymouth beneath a lone oak. As though the sky had suddenly cracked, rays exploded from a pink crescent as the first edge of sun rose over the horizon of cornfields. The light poured across the oak, setting fire to the orange-tipped leaves. I remember thinking that there could be no place on Earth more peaceful.

Dad and I gathered the shotgun and the shells from the trunk and headed into the field. As we walked, Dad showed me the four large inside pockets of the hunting jacket.

"See these?" Dad said. "These are in case you get a lot of game."

"You put the birds in your pockets?" I asked incredulously.

"Sure," Dad chuckled. "You could carry four pheasants in here, if you had to."

"But what about the blood?"

Dad paused. "Hunters don't worry about that," he finally said.

We walked along the edge of the field, the shells in the bottom of Dad's pockets clicking together with each step. In a clearing, he showed me how to aim down the barrel of the gun, hold my breath, then squeeze.

We reached a fence, and after handing the shotgun to me, Dad eased over the barbed wire. Straddling the fence, Dad suddenly ducked to one side, tearing his pant leg on the barbed wire.

"Don't ever point a gun toward anyone," Dad shouted, grabbing the gun. "You hear me? Not ever."

I stood there, numb. I hadn't realized I was holding the gun with the barrel aimed at my father's chest.

As we continued to walk, I couldn't get my father's expression out of my mind: his eyebrows arched crescents of surprise and fear, his mouth frozen open as if he were gasping for his last breath.

Half an hour later, we climbed a small knoll near a fence at the far end of the field. Suddenly a pheasant burst from the grass and caught itself in the lines of barbed wire directly in front of us. The bird fluttered there a second as Dad instinctively raised the barrel and pulled the trigger. A globe of smoke rose, hovered a moment above his head. Then I heard Dad groan. His face went slack as he walked to the dead bird, still dangling from the wires. He touched it with his fingertips.

"We got it!" I cheered as I danced toward the bird. I pushed in front of Dad to get a closer look.

"Damn thing never had a chance," Dad said, lowering the shotgun to the stiff weeds.

"We'll eat it for supper," I said excitedly. "Right?"

Dad didn't answer. He gently untangled the bird's wings from the barbs, and with a sigh, eased it into the large breast pocket of his jacket.

We didn't see another bird the rest of the morning. Every few minutes, I peered into the pocket of his green jacket. I could see the blood stain spreading.

Back at the house, Dad spread out newspapers on the dank cement floor of the cellar and gutted the bird with a kitchen knife. The creases on his face deepened as he pulled out the lead buckshot with tweezers. Down stuck to the skin of his wrists like small gray puffs of smoke.

That night, Mom baked the pheasant for supper. As I ate, I glanced over to the wooden coat peg on the wall, where Dad's hunting jacket hung limply. It was a jacket he'd stop wearing and eventually misplace. But that night I could still see, on the left side, the dark, circular stain that had dried in rings.

Dad didn't talk much at the table as he chewed, except to say that the bird tasted a little strong. All through the meal, he reached into his mouth, pulled out the small gray pellets we'd missed, and placed each on the side of his plate with a click. MM

Bill Meissner directs the creative writing program at St. Cloud State University and is the author of Hitting into the Wind (SMU Press).