The Bronze Huntress

fine, faintly flickering face, a goddess' gilded grimace, eyes slightly squinting, razor-sharp concentrating, lips pursed and puckered, arm straining straight, steady, pushing away at the sturdy bow that bends in, arched; with deft fingers firmly pinching, lithely guiding the arrow's feather past her cheek near the ear, she pulls hard, stretches taut the bare bowstring, impatient, anticipating, she flushes with an aching thrill, itching for a primal burst of some pent-up emotion; but with the prey out there, freely feeding on freedom still, her destiny, indeed, at her sculptor's whiffling whims, is to forever take a careful aim, but never to make the final kill !