Right on target. Bullseye. Straight as an arrow. The similes are endless, and so is the disappointment. The disappointment is exponentially increased when yet another arrow buries itself in unyielding wood, just to the right of the target. My arrow budget is almost as high as the initial outlay on my pretty pink 'n' black camo compound bow. The camo part is pure fantasy; in no world with a breathable atmosphere would it be camouflaged, and imagine the hunting clothes. Then think of the landscape you would be hunting in.
But still I try, because the satisfaction is measureless when the arrow flies true and lands quivering in the target. It's that rare sensation of having got something right. And each true arrow is equally sweet. Letting arrows fly is never boring. It's plunging into the archaic, like seeing a scorpion or hammering white hot iron. The stance - we've all seen it on the Bayeux Tapestry, or carved in stone, or painted without perspective on a dusty wall in Egypt. When I stand, left foot ahead, right foot back, braced and poised, and let fly, behind me are standing all those who have died, who were fighting for their lives, fighting to bring food home, fighting to win. Every shot on target is a tribute, and every miss a reminder of how easy my life is.
My life is made easier because I use a compound bow, a complicated thing with wheels and gears and a handy trigger thing that takes all the agony out of drawing the bowstring. It is, as an elderly gentleman in an archery shop once said, one of those bows with trainer wheels. That does not diminish the pleasure one jot; the arrow flies, buries itself in the target, and I am one with the archers before me.
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