Ear muffed and sunnied, 

sunscreened and swathed in insect repellent,  

I am ensconced  

in someone's rejected mission brown lounge 

all chunky-cable-weave and hammock sag, 

        the obligatory chick, 

        the equipment guard. 

Love these lazy excursions where I can think, 

day-dream, observe from a distance,  

                                                             unmolested  

except for the occasional request to nurse an iPhone or wallet 

and of course, I'm armed with the Epi-pen. 

Touche. 

R springs suddenly into my left periphery, 

she lands with an X-Factor flounce and launches immediately 

into a delighted wiggle-butt routine. 

She's stoked*. 

She has scored her fave trap first - skeet - and she's celebrating. Haha. 

'It's f-f-f-f-freezing, Mrs Reid,' C lip-quivers at me, appealingly. 

I offer a spare jacket I've brought. 

I also have spare hats, ear plugs, a stuffed coin purse and first aid bag. 

'Ah, no, got one,' she beams, peely-nose-wrinkling at me. 

She is sporting Barbie-pink ear muffs, 

a prop to her self-appointed role of self-deprecation -

little rogue makes me laugh. 

Her anklet socks,  

topped like a ringed shelduck in school colours  

are proudly displayed. 

                        The girls leave to assemble at the skeet range. 

My view should be perfect  

but the Maffra kids have midge-cloud crowded my witnessing  

with a murmuration of inquisitiveness. 

Can't see how the girls are going - big sigh! Wait a minute - ahhh, 

semi-dispersal. Now, 

I am peering between groved clusterings of hairy-legged chaps 

having a gander at the girls. 

                        They're worth looking at. 

In smooth motion they take turns, five shots each. 

Up         floats the koi-coloured clay. 

E is dancer-poised, weight         on front left leg, 

her entire consciousness is funnel-channelled,         retriever-pointed 

on the         rising bird. 

The choicest moment pivots on the trajectory's climax. 

Just before the clay crests, 

before it pauses         Rudolf Nureyev - like,

the shotgun fluid-moves         to join E's line of sight. 

She has not for the slightest moment taken her eyes from the target. 

She has already obliterated it in her imagination. 

Had I a brush and not a pen, 

I would rest the tip, fully charged with paint on my paper 

and with a flame-flicker describe E's beauty of line. 

                        A bark.  

The clay particle-shrapnels and I release a breath - yes!  

        Dusted. 

I laugh discreetly - no need to seem to be gloating,

that would be unsporting -

just         so        so

                                proud of my girls.

*stoked = slang for happy