Before they threw the discus into the field
they should have asked me if it was all right.
And I would have told them.
I would have been more than happy to have told them.
But they threw the discus into the field without asking me.
And it not only hurt my feelings, it left me wondering
what else they might have thrown into the field
and into the field that was next to it.
It left me wondering why, if I was the only one
concerned about this, nothing else in the archives
that existed outlined what it was necessary for us to do.
And by saying Throwing the Discus that day
I think they wanted to get across to us
the idea that they were using their own expression.
I think they wanted to save time.
And not have to use up any of their extra minutes.
And they wanted me to hear what they were saying.
But without having to crane my neck in too awkward a position.
When they threw the discus into the field, I noticed
that at least one or more of them arranged
for a sign of caution to be planted across the street from where I was standing.
And arranged for the instructions next to it
not to be printed in bold face letters.
But to be carved into a block of ivory vellum
heavy enough to hold down the curtains they wanted
and the house over which they tossed it into the hands of their god.