It starts with one. A single, solitary dancer silhouette black in the dusky sky. Flights of pirouette, glisser across the deep blue stage. In a pattern erratic at first developing into an intricate repetition of delicate movements. Mesmerizing. Without a sound, the one becomes two still quick and nimble, a dance intertwined. Indistinguishable performers precision at high speed. More dancers take the stage each one knowing exactly its part. For a moment the sky is full to overflowing. Then one by one, each takes a bow exits toward curtains of gray mountains and purple trees leaving the stage of dying day empty except for pinprick stars. The dance is done.
The Pine Cone Review 