This is the sort of night where, if you cast your eyes upward, balance is soon impossible for the sheer massiveness you behold.
The air is crisp, to the extent that your lungs feel grateful for the opportunity to breathe it.
And if the overwhelming quantity of visible stars isn't enough to illuminate your path, the waxing moon is a great shimmering overseer to the world; a crystal halo enshrouding it as protectively as it gazes upon the lawn.
That lawn which once was green, more recently ashen, is now immaculate blue 'neath that gaze, and winks up with fresh frosty dew. Not a breeze stirs the unclad extremities of the trees.
This sort of night irresistably beckons.
You attempt to deny the urge, but...
You dash into the very center of that welcoming stage and simply twirl.
Defiantly at first, with abandon; head thrown back, eyes squeezed in defense agaist vertigo.
Eventually you slow, now spinning with relish.
Your eyes flutter open and the vast beyond draws them.
The twirls sputter to an end and you allow yourself to drop backwards to lie prostrate upon the long-forgotten lawn.
You now peer into the deep dream your twirls had momentarily transported you to. Each twinkling orb now whisks you jealously into its own waltz, far from the skipping feet you use.
No sound pollutes the dance; not a note or rustle is heard. Only two of your senses are even conscious: touch and sight (the former being dominant).
But, alas, an icy gust arrives almost apologetically, rousing you from your reverie. You leap to your not-so-busy toes, squeeze yourself warmly as a close to your commune with the night, and slip, with one final glance at your stage, then partners, through the backdoor. |
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