Performances begin in the wings.
Early - as she preferred it.
Mists swishing away by a breeze stirred the memory of heavy velvet stage curtains parting for the first act.
Automatically she responded by lengthening her spine: head high, long neck, and ankles delicately crossed.
Then the illusion dispersed.
Not rows and balconies. No orchestra tuning.
Only water lapping and boats fretting in the marina with their halyards slapping.
What was it like, she wondered.
To wake up on one of those big yachts – with seagulls announcing the day. Able to wrap up in cashmere for a bit longer. Nested snuggly. Rocked by the wind and rhythmic waves.
The eager staff silently waiting her summons.
The yacht owners cautioning all that their guest had a late night and must rest for her performance.
Quietly drinking their coffee on deck waiting for her to emerge.
Congratulating themselves that she selected to grace them with her exotic presence.
It would have been a grand promenade to the boat.
The trees sighed for her.
Don’t favor the other leg.
Keep the weight evenly distributed.
Perhaps with a little rest.
Could that be learned at this stage?
“No rest for the wicked!” they used to giggle in the wings.
She was restless.
Now the breeze softly seduced her.
The dawn worthy of Aurora was intoxicating.
She could not help flinging her fingers skyward. Swan Lake not too long a memory.
A small pirouette? One tiny jump? What could it hurt?
Perhaps one small measured gesture?
A practiced eye said the rail height was approximately the same as the barre.
Egrets as an audience?
Minnows’ leaps mimicking spontaneous ripples of applause?
Those tiny ankles: the weak link between long legs and toes long tolerant of torment.
One tiny springing step and then a leap.
A performance not to be denied.
Her wings lifted her over the water.
It was breakfast time and the fish, like silver opera glasses waving aloft, were beckoning her to choose them.
Phil, the Philosopher Mouse of the Hedge
Note: A Great Egret seems to have stopped in for a visit. Tuesday, I was startled to see the most beautiful snowy white giant bird (like 5-6 feet tall) standing on the dock in the mists just at dawn. Would have been a great pix, except, Molly, the dog, refused to slow down long enough to grab the camera on the way out. Been watching everyday since. This morning as we approach the crane fishing spot, the huge bird gracefully flew right over us – annoyed the landscape crew was unloading equipment with so much noise…so the quest continues. It looked as elegant as any prima ballerina. (and really really big)