She stands
atop Mount Washdry
She undoes
her hair and sways skyclad to the song that sounds within her soul. Wrists and ankles
move, knees and elbows. She closes her eyes as the dance overtakes her
completely.
Limbs
whirl. Wordlessly, she keens her song. Slow, fast, loud, soft. Her dance flows
gracefully and without effort as the wind.
When she is
finished, she opens her eyes. The moon shines pure blessings on all Fill.
Does she
know whether or not her dance moves the clouds? Does she care?
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