Rifle Range

CRACK!

Click-click, click-click.

CRACK!

Explosions resound

As bolt-action rifles

Fire, reload, and fire again,

Jerk me from my reverie.

I lurch upright,

Disoriented,

Find myself alone,

Acrid smoke floating above my head,

The girls from my tour group

Already each in her shooting stall,

Already mastering her weapon,

Already sending bullets flying and

Old tin cans hopping all across the range.

I remain still,

Reorienting,

Browning grass prickling my hand.

Heat waves shimmer

Between the Georgia earth and sky.

The German shepherd beside me

Stirs,

Eyes opening,

Lithe body rolling

Onto her stomach and

Up on her feet.

Immediately she leans against my

Still seated form,

Her enormous ears swiveling toward me,

And begs for more head rubs.

I remember why I’m on the ground

And not with the other girls,

And rub those ears

Once,

Before getting to my own feet.

Her head bumps my leg.

She has no idea how adorable and distracting she is.

I walk

To the shooting stalls

Half bent over,

Attempting to compromise by

Scratching her ears

While still heading

Where I should have been

5 minutes ago.

As we near the stalls,

I search for an empty one.

Disappointment

Envelops me when I realize

All are full.

Momentarily

The shepherd livens

Under my fingers,

Muscles quivering,

Seeing something I cannot.

Then she’s off, trotting to one stall,

The stall, I now see,

Which contains her master,

The range master.

I wonder if he is aware

Of my laxity,

And I hope he was too

Busy with the others

To notice.

He glances up,

Sees me,

And the slow smile

Quirking across his lined and grizzled face

Tells me more than the words

He would not

Shame me by uttering

Just how

Aware

He was.

I grin back apologetically,

And join him in the stall.

The dog rests her head against my leg,

Begs again for attention,

But except for

A quick swipe at her ears

I ignore her.

I have been lax enough as it is.

The master is explaining

The rifle to me,

And I must attend

To every word.