Range Day
Berms rise high to the left and right,
they’ve created a wide gully,
another berm squares off the back,
so no stray rounds ever get free.
There’s a metal spinner back there,
sits just short of two hundred yards,
I squeeze back and the bullet flies,
recoil jolts shoulder and arm.
I hear that small, metallic ping,
and thrill that I’ve gotten a hit,
may not be hard for a marine,
but I am quite happy with it.
I’m a civvie with iron sights
on my Winchester ’94,
I don’t get out here that often,
so or me, I call it a score.
Around me, on this low platform
others folks are working their guns,
two boy scouts shoot their.22s,
are plinking away, having fun.
An older woman sports a Glock,
a pistol, it’s for self-defense,
seems hesitant, she’s new to this,
but rightly fears criminal men.
A guy that I know hunts big moose
shoots slowly, sighting in his scope,
he gave me some ground meat last year,
will he give again? (I can hope!)
Blasts come from a much wider field,
shotguns destroying sporting clays,
after they’ll brag about their scores,
as some boast about their golf game.
Behind it all is a clubhouse,
there is a big elk-head in there,
a meeting room where they teach class
for new shooters still unaware.
They sometimes sell hot dogs inside,
or chili, when they have events,
mostly it is a hang-out place,
a space where men still can be men.
And of course the good ol’ 2nd
hangs above the big fireplace,
what are other rights without it?
Just notions evil will disgrace.
I cycle through my magazine,
pick up the brass for my range bag,
I’m reloading much more these days,
with inflation prices are mad…
Copyright ©
David Welch
|