An archer wades through shallow grass
Unnaturally silent
A splash ensnares her eye

She holds her breath
The taut string sharp against her naked hand
In her silver eyes not a sliver of doubt
She lets go
But fails
A swift streak across the muddy waters

And again
Now a glorious gush of red
Almost art
Yet her stoic expression does not deceive
She claims her reward
In solitude’s cold embrace

Soon she lights the fire
Glowing gold
To feed the hungry
Their own