The Dancers

I am reminded of the Bolshoi and Balanchine, so many winters in the long ago, I’ve just a glimpse in the mind’s eye where memories fade, except I do recall quite clearly the patter of their feet. Or and again my mind drifts to Yeats “Among School Children” and that timeless line about knowing the dancer from the dance. Sitting here in hope perhaps of the pirouette of a hummingbird at the penstemon. The cosmos is a pleasant distraction.

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