Six o'clock, sitting in the little "Stubble Hide"
It's cold, a draught up our backs and half asleep
The field in front empty, except rigid decoys
Time slides slowly by to seven o'clock
Warming up, chatting, watching for birds
Radio messages, tide is nearly in
Gulls are flying over the sea-wall
A flock of curlew overhead
Calling, circling, landing
In the catching area,
Eight, Twelve, Twenty,
Forty, Sixty-five
Arm the box,
Seventy,
Eighty,
BANG!
