The drawn bow opens a threshold held between left hand and right; where potential trembles, an arrow rests. Can the archer hold the patient ground as the tension ripens to that undivided moment of surrender? Will he loose himself into the dynamic stillness of being from whence the art emerges? The unwavering eye looks ahead.
The humid and hot breath of Summer is trailing south, as the nightlong cool-downs, and the pensive Bush Crickets with their Autumn song, ignite old memories of childhood poets, river bluffs & travel. Even now, Yellow Poplar leaves have begun the turning; in their golden conclusions they fall, lighting up the forest floor.
Spiny green husks swell between the serrated leaves of a big Chestnut standing deep-rooted before our home. Her kind were brought from Asia to soften the sad loss of our own in-kind native. She’s preparing a big feast this year, and the impatient squirrels can’t help but sample the season filled nuts, “green” as they still are.