In the darkness, the feeble light from the garage flickered, shadows cast from the wind tugged flag made everything tremble as if in torch light.
The pell waited.
I have a pole arm.
Fear not the man who practices 1,000 strikes, but the man who practices a strike 1,000 times.
I breathe. In the cool night air my brow glistens with sweat. Again! Plant the back foot! Drive! Breathe! Flow like water and step through.
Nothing popped out, no muscle cried in protest.
And off in the night, the wind seethed.