The wind whistles across the dry field, bringing with it the arid scent of dust and hay. Eddies of dirt writhe and twist in the current. It is not a powerful gust, but a mere breeze, enough to rustle the hair and cool the mind. These gentle streams of wind are pierced by the slender bodies of arrows, streaking through the air. The whistle of the projectile, followed by the tell-tale thwack of an arrow striking true, masks the wind’s harmonic whispers. The archer exhales, shoulders relaxing; the wisp of breath joins into the wind’s chorus. Standing tall at the lane, with the familiar weight of the bow in his hand, the archer composes himself. Breathing deeply, his fingers find the string almost on instinct. In the same breath, he pulls on the string while extending the bow forward. The arrow rests in its nock, gliding smoothly as it’s pulled back. The archer maintains this position, the burn in his shoulders a comforting feeling. His eyes travel along the shaft of the arrow, extending past the tip to the target. The slight shaking of his arms makes the arrow seem to quiver in anticipation, anxious to take flight. His focus sharpens, vision tunneling, background noise and color fading to dull tones and grays. The target becomes a myriad of vivid colors, white and red almost pulling the arrow to it. Another inhale: the cold air rushing into his lungs. The exhale: shoulders lower, warm breath brushes the tip of the finger resting next to his mouth.
A slight pause.
  Then the release.
His fingers relax and uncurl. The string lunges forward with a snap! propelling the arrow forward. The arrow hisses as it slides along its rest. The smooth grip of the bow shivers in the archer’s hands as the force of launch sends waves along its length. Already, the archer’s eyes analyze the path of the arrow midflight, drawing upon the intuitive human understanding of physics- weight, trajectory, velocity- remnants of the age when humans traversed through swinging on trees. The archer pinpoints the end of the arrow’s flight, patiently waiting for the climactic moment. The arrow streams through the air - a mere medium to pass through- as it flies closer and closer, closing the distance between itself and the target...