He says it's the tips of these things that really make them what they are. He is talking about the metal points on the arrows, but the claim is just as easily applied to the top of his head or the clothes the other two are wearing. Perhaps it is most easily applied to the entire scene, from the outside view as well as the inside view, of all of us shooting arrows in a trampled part of the wheat field not eight miles west of town, standing at our angles according to the script we've been using for however long: the oldest of the three of us closest to the experienced one.



The bows lessen in size as the age correspondingly drops among the three of us. How perfect.

You look awkward, he says, positioning himself around the oldest. Pull it in this direction, but don't work it too much. And then, keep your breath in your lungs, you don't want your breathing to ruin the shot.



I'm in the middle, with the appropriately sized bow, and an arrow in my right hand. He's structured a bail of hay not more than twenty-five feet from where we're standing, with something of a crude, paper marker held tightly within the folds of the straw. It's not even marked with a target symbol: he doesn't even know where he's trying to lead us.

We each only have one arrow, which means we have only one shot, and have always had only one shot. The oldest misses the target, and I'm not surprised. He grumbles, as is the usual reaction to his misses.

...

It's a complete loss of language, or it's a frustrated mess. Perhaps it is both, and maybe his grumbling mess of sounds is dazzling. I'm left to guess, however, with only the part that whistles and sings, and little more.





When it's my attempt I'm not allowed to begin my aim or shot until the one before me is completely cleared from view. I'm left to do it on my own, because the collaborative work is, as we've been told already, dangerous. We should've known that on our own.

Here, look at this, let me get around you and light it up for you, and then the whole scene is coming straight for me. It's coming straight for us. I'm sitting on the bridge between it all, waiting for it, and I'm only unaware.



I panic, letting the arrow go without the metal point that makes everything what it is aligned on the clip near where I hold the bow with my left hand. It falls to the ground easily, far short of the nameless, faceless target. It's the tip that makes it work. That's where you have to line it up. Then you follow through.

The oldest starts with we... and I have to finish.

We understand that, but do you?