Though waiting to be shot
As if from a bow at history
Old men know the fleeting path of arrows
And how many miss their mark
Advising only to appreciate the arc
And the view from there,
With the harried battle far below.
Arrows that land, impotent in furrows
Or twisted to the back of a horse’s knee
Taking down no kings nor plunder
Had a least their moment there
Between release and fall
To imagine a softening enemy
That they may retire in.
Arrows cannot choose their bow,
It takes a helpful archer to know
The wind, the field and in the letting go
The adamantine nature of the foe.