Arrows and Rain

Rain can spoil an archer’s day, while conspiring with a writer’s muse.  Such was tournament day.  Decisions taken, plans made, grounds prepared, practice and practice on the Archer’s Green, as our intentions, like raised flags, came into sharp relief.  But rhythms more comprehensive than these prevail––sometimes dramatically––and so the geometry of one possibility, with all the effort to bring it forth, dissolves.  Disappointed, we’re humbly dismissed from the stage, hopefully with a measure of gratitude.

In dreamtime last night, I was with an archery student beside a stream pool.  I began to remove egg-blue stones from my quiver, preparing to place them into the water.  I paused while we considered how she could take them home to incubate, but it seemed untimely.  So into the pool the blue egg-stones returned.

“Not only is there an alchemy of sacrifice,                                                                           there’s also an alchemy of gratitude.”

LettingGo

Burning Leaf Moon

Twilight fell into night and a full moon rose with an amber-red glow, like firelight from a wood stove.  Our mountains are burning ‘neath a sky that’s forgotten how to rain.  A spring-killing drought leaves a deadly thirst among the highland natives.  At the Shire, our smoke-reddened eyes and nasal stings are brought by ashen winds from the Cohutta Mountains northwest of us.  We all know what it means, and all the more so, when we lack for words.  Midnight, and high in the sky vault, an indifferent moon glows cold ‘n white; its fullness, a cruel parody of our emptiness.

realIn the Archer’s Lore rainmakers would cast a skyward arrow to breech the high-hidden river, reluctant to share its life-giving wealth.  The art may be lost on our modern frame of mind, but we’ll craft suitable arrows just in case, and pray for rain.