Joe was smiling even before the faint 'thock' reached his ears from the far end of the range. He knew that he was precisely on target. He drew another arrow from the quiver that rested against his slender hip and knocked it to the string. The shaft of the arrow rested against the top of his hand as he drew back the string.
Joe took a single deep breath and held it. Slowly exhaling, he sighted on the target which rested three hundred yards away. One more slow inhale and he released the string. It made a faint snapping sound; the wood whisper quiet as it slid against his hand. He preferred to shoot off the hand, he felt more connected to the shot that way.
He swiftly knocked another arrow and let it fly. And again, and again, emptying his quiver. Joe carefully unstrung his recurve, slid it into it's leather carrying case and picked up his quiver. He walked quickly to the far end of the range, smiling in satisfaction when he saw that all his shots had pierced the target withing a quarter inch of each other. He drew the arrows from the target and placed them carefully in the quiver.
Joe whistled a short tune as he walked back to his car.
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