ARC OF THE ARROW
I see the arrow in flight,
In an arc, from the bow,
And I’m more awed
By the beauty of flight,
Than fearful of the black-shafted raven dart
Threatening life and limb.
The feathers of the shaft
Whisper on the wet air,
Tumbling, slowly spinning,
Like a screw twisting
Into the flesh of soft wood.
A driving rain, but a solitary drop.
Gravity, pulling like a vacuum,
Speeding on the down angle,
As it races to suck out my life.
To imbed in my velvet skin.
I see the arc of the arrow,
Startled as I sweetly call it to me.
I feel the tip prickle my flesh,
And then I taste the bite,
Burrowing into my center,
And I’m awed…
As I arc to the earth.
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