One day he will kill the greatest prize, bring it home and hang it by the hindlegs for all the town to see. He strokes each bow, feels sleek & fine wood beneath the tips of his calloused fingers, considers each arrow in his roster, thin lovers to twine with the string. The only love a bow knows is the kind you must let go of, to let prosper alone. Sailing through the air is a solitary art.

Day by day he is left with less and less bows as the famed hunters come in search of their new companion. Allowing killer instinct to guide the way to either ebony or wooden weaponry, whichever would best suit their prey. He studied every remaining friend and imagined each one in his hands, the fame they could find each other.

Dreamily, he allowed each one away to its new habitat, its destiny. He placed each customer in the wilds, stalking game, and pictured his own face atop each set of armour, soon he would find his own glory. With whichever bow the heroes left behind, he would

Fire the surest of arrows, the sound of the tails whipping in the wind would be the inspiration for the songs to mark his grace.

And with a final bow, the thought was gone