He stands shyly left foot on the line,

Excitement and fear warring in his face,

A tentative smile as he looks up

Only for a moment before looking down again.

He has never seen one, but

Not sure where his hands belong

he stands, carefully holding the bow.

He awaits the command

“Archers set your arrow.”

Looking at the stack, he reaches,

unsure of how to “set” the arrow,

hands confused till help arrives.

Together, they nock the arrow.

Gently he is guided to hold his arms,

one out holding the bow

the other on the string, ready to pull.

The arrow swings off the bow.

He stops and looks for help,

gripping the arrow instead of the string.

A little coaching and he is ready.

The arrow stays on the bow

as he pulls with all his might.

A chant begins – “farther, farther’

Then “let it fly!”

It does, though not quite to the target.

Still, his smile says it all,

Just flying, if only a little,

is more than all his experience.

He waits for the command, again,

more confident this time.

With the arrow set, he is ready,

pulling, as the chant continues in his head.

The flight is true and strong.

“Thwack”, his arrow sticks.

It matters not the center is missed,

his smile grows and he dances a little.

More comfortable, he awaits the command.

Set and draw, not waiting for the chant.

“Thwack” and he jumps for joy,

The shaft in the outer circle,

Confidence growing by the moment,

He sets and breathes,

Calming before the pull.

“Thwack” again and closer still.

In the zone, more comfortable,

He keeps the pattern

As if born to it,

Each shaft getting closer

Sudden exclamations erupt, and

He notices the people again.

All are clapping and shouting.

His last shaft is dead center!