Daphne in the storm (unfinished)

The wind shakes thrushes from her  bosom. branches break. the river god reclaims his daughter limb by limb. rain drops like tears.
the archer's hunting other maids.
He'll top their hair with laurel wreaths, forgetting where he found the leaves.
he'll kiss them, too, as though they've won some race, then fly off,  and their green crowns will turn gold, and brittle in the wind.
he'll pass tomorrow, sun in tow, not looking down to see what's warmed, what's missed, what's burnt to sand.