Philanderers of the Feathered Fletch.
I joined this league years ago. Faithless and faithful all at the same time.
Bows of all shapes and sizes, ages and materials line our homes like treasured memories in a photo album. The new ones come in fresh and alive, each nuance charged with bold new strokes of genius. The old are cherished for the times they represent, the archers long past who held and loved them, the glories of another age. Beheld en masse , they are the circular continuum, and within their rawhide-hemp-linen-dacron-FF embrace we are held as in an eternal web, in our rightful place and part of the whole which will never be completed. Draw the bow, yin and yang are pulled apart, to spring back together at our release. The world is balanced anew and time leaps forth as a brightly streaking arrow, the soaring path of the hopes of Man. If the arrows stop flying, what becomes of our world? Our history forgotten, our ancesters crumble, and there is an unmeasured wobble in the future revolutions of the Earth.
Buy that One Bow, I dare you.
I triple dog dare you.
It's your duty.
Killdeer