A wooden arrow, with yellow fletching, slants into the short grass; incongruous, like a single spike on a hedgehog.
A woman smiles.
This morning she was greeted by cool Spring air, scented with newly cut grass, and the affectionate insults of comrades. Two months away. She’d missed it all.
A whistle called her to the line. Her aim was straight, but her shots fell short.
“Every arrow away.”
Shrugging off her loss, she enjoyed the walk, the banter and her mentor’s advice.
“When shooting uphill, aim higher.”
She aimed higher and on the last end scored one point.
She smiled.