Birth

-They dance in the cover of night. The star strewn sky glistening above them, sprinkling the lighter shades of dark and bestowing variation to their senses like an orchestral composition made to fill each moment and each silence. The light bounces about them and the world is transformed a thousand times as it becomes diffused. They dance without question. They dance without reason, but also because every possiblity exists in the steps they take together as well as those they awkwardly take in the moments when rhythm is lost. Were they to stop and question the purpose of their movement, were they to stop and gaze about while qualifying their fluidity, the entire world would be lost. The moment would shatter and the resonance of the beating of their hearts would cease, a silence would render everything else inaudible, would swallow this world. So they dance. They do not stop to think, to imagine, to analyze. They simply breathe in and allow the scattering light and the sweeping breeze and the cadence and missteps of their feet to fill in every space for thought, that they become nothing more than conduits to the majesty of the moment, to the breath which carries the vibrations of the true nature of God, of love, of presence. They dance. They dance. They dance.