A swift breeze collects in the
Valley, whistling through the
String of the Archers bow.
Green grass gives way under the Archer's dark brown boot
With a soft crunch, as she steps on the mark
The crowds animated chatter drifts past her ears,
Carried with the wind.
She turns to the Arrow Marker
Eyes closed in concentration,
The crowd disappears from view
Mentally, she blocks all sound but the soft,
Reassuring whisper of wind.
Quivering hand now calm as she lovingly caresses the
Cool, smooth wood of her bow.
A solemn weight has dropped upon
Them like a suffocating fog.
She is the last archer to compete in the competition,
All wait with a choked breath.
Sweat glistens her brow
In a split second, she lifts her bow into
Position, her body 90 degrees to the target
Taking a moment, she stares
At her goal, a petite sign 120 ft away.
Thoughts collected,
An arrow is fitted to her bow
A blur to all eyes
Her speed unmatchable
''Twang!''
The arrow hits dead center with a
Resounding 'Thunk.''
The audiences' screams of applause
Crescendos' to a colossal roar
The archer's face is still,
A mysterious shine
In her eyes
