An Arrow Drawn Back

My fingers pull back,
The arrow drawn with it,
The tip aimed down at the target.
My breathing steadies,
My thoughts slow,
Nothing else mattering.
The thin, pointed cone aims,
Steading towares the ring,
Precariously placed in a delicate place.
My fingers begin to throb,
The strong rope wearing down my fingers,
Making them pay a price
For it's performance.
My thumb rests along my jawline,
The bone becoming a wall,
A place in which to fall back on,
Somewhere to keep coming back to.
My stance is steady and strong,
My toes buried in the sand,
Pointed towards the lake.
My fingers let go, 
The arrow shooting forward.
A split second passes,
A thwip filling the cool air,
As the arrow hits the little yellow ring.
All the intricacies,
All the work,
Pays off in the moment
I release the arrow.
My fingers pull back,
A new arrow loaded,
As I focus on doing everything the same,
In hope of the same results.