Summer Dance

In summer, on moonlit nights, I come to the all but desolate campus near my home, wearing my gold sparkled half shirt & a wine-colored Indian cotton skirt.

There's a music that wafts from the canyon, over the northern field. It reminds me of the gypsy dances I learned starting at age nine. Urgent primal movement, from India, w/ an Eastern European overlay. Dances of desire, longing, grief & ecstasy. They speak through me as I make my way across the moist grasses.

The first steps, deliberate, the balls of my feet testing the still warm soil, my arms raised high, the backs of my wrists gently kissing. Then the tempo increases--the 4 tiny cymbals on my fingers clashing gently.

Later, as my feet lightly graze the moist grass, I leap into the air & turn, circling clockwise. Faster & faster. In a waking dream I see campfire stars, feel the tremble of tambourines.

Still later, spectral fiddles slow the pace. & my body winds it's way through a sensual coda, ending in a split---my wrists venturing one last kiss. On the final beat, my back arches as I bring my arms down, hard at my side. Breath comes rapidly, filling me, as my chest rises & falls.

There's a springwater pool on the west side of the canyon, just below the field. Deep as an onsen. It's where I come to bathe, once the wildness of the dance has passed.


I make my way to the isthmus--west of the pool & about midway between the frog pond & the Blue Bridge--thinking of you...

To Be Continued