The hounds of Artemis

The plain is covered in long, dry, cream-colored grass. 
She’s running.
Her toes touching the ground, her heels never do.
Half-floating. 
The earth trembles as she passes.
Flowers smile and gratefully move out of her way. 
The wind sharply strokes the face of the goddess of the wild, 
goddess of the moon,
goddess of the forest. 
The wind’s tears wet her face with excitement’s delight.
She notices Atlas’s grunts,
his shoulders aching from the strenuous duty of separating the earth from the sky.
She’s following the hints of the music.

Her hounds, all equipped with one brown and one green eye, 
howl and bark. 
So near, they could lick her moonlit heels.
She never looks back to confirm the hound’s presence. 
They are always there;
they are her.
Suddenly, she speeds up.
Steps of six meters long,
seven meters long.
She jumps up
High into the sky.
Her gown wraps tightly around the front of her body,
flares behind her,
giving her the appearance of an angel.
She sharpens her bow, aims and releases the arrow.

The man shockingly looks up.
His hands open, 
a drop of sweat forming underneath the blond curl covering his forehead,
an arrow sticking through his poem.
Her hounds are quiet, yet alert. 
“Apollo, my brother.”
She says.
“No man is to write poetry about me unless I’ve given permission to do so. 
After thousands of years of immortal life, you’d assume one would be aware of such matters, wouldn’t you?”
Apollo’s smirk is irresistible.
The wildness in her hounds even more so.