Originally published in On Target, Volume 1, Issue 1, Winter 1996.
| The slim crescent of yew bends at full draw A soft rustle of feathers against the weathered cheek Those gnarled fingers wrapped 'round the slender cedar branch String straining, fibers drawn taut While 'neath furrowed brow, practiced eyes seek their goal Breath ceases, shoulders tense, bone and sinew steady as stone Fingers unfurl to unleash the power trapped in the wood String and its issue are forced ever faster Then, slipping its bonds, the shaft silently arcs toward its fate Lowering his bow, the archer stands watching Prays his eyes are still sharp, his aim still true Rising, rising, polished wood and gleaming steel glint in the sunlight Falling, falling, feathers flash through the sky, sure of the mark The arrow descends, a smile passes his lips His prayers have been answered, the mark has been found The missile strikes, quivering, it stands as a beacon Surrounded by a golden light, the master's shaft has found its way home. |
