You are here
Sunday at the gun range. I’ve just switched
from a Glock .45 to a rifle, loading thin, shiny
30-30s into the chamber. The late September
air floats with dandelion poufs, the sun drugged,
golden. There’s eight of us in ear muffs,
lined up under the kiosk, various firearms
splayed on the table. We’re a small
army, and this is clean, American fun—
our focus, our will, the only church
we understand. I hit the paper dead-on,
at 50 yards, kickback reverberating
down my skeleton, raise and aim
again, the small muted explosions
of the others no distraction. It’s an orgy
of shots. Again, I nail my target, maintain
my stance, when I notice fluttering
out of my right eye. A Monarch, with its trick-
or-treat wings, skips right past us, climbing,
falling, zig-zagging through our line
of vision, dodging bullets, on some sort
of suicide mission, or showing off its circus-
sized balls. One by one, down the line, shots
stop, and all of us—men in camo, gangly teens,
serious women—watch, our guns raised
but silent, following as the butterfly takes a good
minute to reach the other side. Since it’s Sunday,
we continue to blow shit up. No one says
a word. We don’t even look at one another.
