Tell me something about: the archer.
Harvested for our local orders in a light rain this morning, which made it less fun than usual. Also making it less enjoyable? The realization that most everything out there is slowing right down - the tomatoes, the peppers, the berries.
It's like it's almost the end of the season or something.
As the sun peers over the horizon to signal the start of day, he has already begun his. The target, wedged between two trees on the far side of a clearing at least fifty paces wide, wears the scars of his early morning practice. The soft calls of hidden birds are the only sounds to be heard not of his creation. A rattle as an arrow is drawn from the quiver across his back, the tired groan of his wooden bow, the twang of string, the thud of impact. Over and over and over again.
Behind him, hidden by bushes, his son keeps watch, imitating his every move. Only his bow is imaginary, and he grasps arrows from a quiver only he can see. His form is perfect, his breathing steady. Soon his mother will discover his empty bed and she will come to drag him back to the house to help with breakfast.
But for now he is living the dream of the archer, and that is all that matters.