Things Fall Apart And Come Together

  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 w...