Like tsurune, the music
of a vibrating bowstring,
the arrow just released:
a squawk that breaks
the still air, the rush
of motes rising from
the release point.
A perfect shot is measured
not by the arrow’s mark,
but by this sound,
produced by purity
of mind. Such an archer
is honest—you can hear
her honesty. It’s
the resolution of her
fingers, drawn back by
muscle memory, and
fluid—condensation
dripping down a glass.
Soon the memory
of this sound will fade,
and this, too, has a name—
ōjibōbō—the past
a vast expanse of weeds,
the sound swallowed
by their cunning leaves.
