Singleminded.

There's a young woman who stands in the vacant lot behind my house every afternoon while she practices throwing the discus. This field is overgrown with weeds and briars. It's riddled with sink holes, and one must assume, holds chiggers in fair abundance.

She doesn't seem to care about any of that.

Even in spring it can get plenty warm, standing out in a field without a tree to call one's own. And when the afternoon sun slips behind a thundercloud and the heavens threaten to blow wide open with the sole purpose of sweeping her and her saucer away into the mysteries, still she stands. And spins. And thrusts.

She stands there alone, day after day, be it warm or wet, in a field behind the homes of people she does not know--spinning and slinging that saucer out across the field, far over the weeds and the holes and the chiggers.

Step, one-two-three, FLING, step-step.

Willing it to go. And it does.