She was out of breath, a chestnut freckled nymph, tumbling through the woods. As if she were, Diana, running, eluding a square-jawed Apollo, and his torrential bed.
Her legs were short but supple, her body toned, but his strength was so much greater; his limbs thick with muscle earned in battle; height taller, hands quick, fingers nimble — but not such as hers.
She did not tarry, she hurried through the trees; their game played once, and forever. The catch and release continued with the nymph’s harmonious melodies. Her lute trilling, protecting her and luring him, precisely where she desired.
The nymphs laughter was as bells at dawn, signalling he’d caught her, and day turned to dusk as she coyly smiled and left. Her walk triumphant, his laughter all too knowing.
He dreamt of every time he caught her, tossing her up high as their lips melded. They met perpetually in their Grecian eternity, playing catch and release; it never became boring.