A bronze doe, stoic and unmoving, cast as though it were alive.
She stares at the sky in hopes to be free, yet she is frozen.
She's become frosted by the cold in which she was discarded.
Laying in the dirt, a slight smirk etched into her face, ears perked in curiosity.
Fur has been carved into her form but her legs are still bare.
Marks now pock her skin, placed upon by the sculptor.
A smooth line parts her back, from nose to tail, she's now tarnished and worn.
Her abdomen is distended. Was she starved or perhaps with child? Who is to tell?
Behind her sits a man with a cello and ale. He's plucking at the strings and playing wildly. Perhaps he was the one pulling them, orchestrating her statuesque form.
Yet there she lays, staring into yonder, hoping to be animate.