The Dance

      The congo drums beat in the back of her brain and travel down her body like a pinball repenting between each curve of her body. Her bare feet pound the dirt, throwing sand in small arc as she pivets gracefully in a soulful sway. Arms extended and fingers bending to the sky she appears to be praising the stars in all their beauty.Those tiny lights sparkle in vain for she is conquering a space beyond the constellations. Just as nature wires together the shining possibility of the universe with pretty images outlined in one magnificant and stellar sky, the human mind too sets in motion the connect-the-dot synaptic chemical creation that is colored by our humanity, and our legacy is a tapestry of experience. Behind closed eyes she is free of form. Her essence is held together by only the power of her energy, her aura. The strain of her muscles, a precious ache, pulse beneath her skin causing the moonlight to shine off her arms in silver drops.
      The drummers increase the beat. Their hands slap the tanned rawhide and they chant in time. The sweet dulcent tones of feminity float gently under the booming bass of men. The energy turns like the tide pulling in and out from the cores of all those standing on it's shores, each time pulling back a piece of each soul. Eventually the sands are unsorted and the grains become the ground and everything is one. The dancer throws her hair back and forth and ripples spread across as the air changes around her and the sound settles differently in her steps. A drummer ceases to drum as he pauses to receive all that is around him. The absense of his beat is filled with the sounding ching ching of silver coins bouncing gently with the the shimmy of the dancer's waist scarf. The drum beats recede one by one, like the raindrops on the outer edge of a rainstorm, switching to the sound harmony of hums. Ching ching. Hmmmm. Ching Ching. The slow crackle of a campfire.
      Behind her closed eyes the dancer feels the warmth of the energy clearly in the meditated darkness of her mind. She can feel the rise and fall in her heart rate as she keeps pace with the slowing rhythm of the circle. Although her feet have been in contact with the ground, only now does she start to lower back to surface. Her heart rate evens out in a tired yet satisfied thud thud, her body's internal drumbeat encore. This is a lycanthropy of it's own. Releasing the sparks burning inside, refreshing the self for a new energy potential. Following the seasons of the self, expanding and retracting in a pulse of self discovery.