The clays soar,

fly Frisbee high, ninja-rotate;

then drake-dive, rabbit-scurry,

detonate.

Their underskirts are mission

brown,

dark disc against

blue-bright.

...

Trees shagged

where shot has strafed

transforming woolly bark

to spiked echidna.

Fluoro-orange litters site,

shrapnel birds, shiny-carapaced

like poisonous coral-coloured snakes,

like Jaffas spat out

by tooth-cracked giant - pah!

...

The kids wait.

They wear blood-moon glasses

to fight glare,

mesh-backed vests cinched at waist

in sedate navy or sage,

discreet khaki.

Guns broken, muzzles rest

on scruffy Nikes.

They have narrowed focus to pinpoint sky,

optimum sweet spot identify

where clay's rising ride slow-mo's and hovers, spinning.

Point finger, mesmerise accosted clay,

fix in place - forensic fingerprint,

mentally obliterate.

Now,

draw finger down to 'house', sketch trajectory.

If you would have bird explode

into firework,

chrysanthemum blossom,

accurately calculate the point at which finger

must be squeezed

back,

the rate at which your

gun - -- --

-- -- --

---

must - -- --

-- -- --

---

track.