Birth of an Archer

Through high grass I have come

To my hidden property

Where I might do the least damage

To myself and others

For here no one may see me walking

One hand full of arrows

The other hand full of bow

To chase an adolescent dream

Thirty years too late born of

Fascination for this instrument of precision

I measure my steps more or less in yards

To place the target I will soon seek

And I am stricken by the notion that

Now I can touch the yellowed center

Trace my fingers around its perfect labyrinth

Like a child drawing a maze ending in gold

And yet soon I may not be able to find it

Through this afternoon haze it may avoid me or

Prove to be beyond my skills

I pace back longing for the target I have left

Turning now to face in the distance the pattern

Laid out like a blueprint or radar to guide my arrow

I do not know form or technique

Barely understanding the mechanics

Knowing only that I must drive this arrow home

So I make of my legs a base

Run my fingers down false feathers

And pluck at this synthetic string how

Ancestors once picked the sinew of dead animals

I must envision a tunnel and

Connect the sharpened tip of my arrow

To that imaginary resting place

Praying against distance and wind

That even one will find its home

So that I might sing

With the strum of this ancient weapon

Resembling a one note harp

I release the arrow and it is free to

Fly wide, be lost, make for me a hunt

Into the looming forest beyond

But I have started with twelve arrows

And I have many more to pull

Until both hands burn with friction

And my fingertips are stripped of identity