Final Orders

Down the wide line
Green tufted
With worn dark spots
Dark arising on the horizon
The smell of powder
Thick in the
Late afternoon air.
A Carolina gull
Dips too close
Meandering in from
The nearby sea
And lands
Unsure atop a faraway
Post.
A rifle cracks
Far up the line
The small brass headed bullet
Streaking across the flats
Before slamming into
The white faced target.
My buddy sighs
In anticipation
His small hands wet with
Perspiration.
This late afternoon shoot
His third and final try
In our turgid initiation.
I kneel beside him
Elbow extended over bent knee
Leather straps holding the rifle
Taut
The sight still not steady
Down the long barrel
Lock and load comes the faraway order
My dry fingers reach for the clip and jam
It in
And one single  finger
Then releases the bullet
On its way.