The Dance of Silverfoot
When she dances, the wind pauses to watch and the air becomes heavy with the light scent of spring, and the glowing motes floating in the air fall more slowly. All life hangs breathless at the dance of Celebrindal.
The rippling of her golden hair down her back reflects the sunlight in a symphony of joyous, shimmering colors; the wind holds its breath because all the slow excitement the world can hold in one moment is expressed fully in her elegant movements, the perfect harmony of hand and foot and swirling raiment.
She does not seem completely happy when she dances. Her closed eyes and slight smile and delicately furrowed brows convey more of a bittersweet memory; contentment with the moment, but fear, always fear, of what is to come.
Maybe she is right to fear the future. Maybe she is right to fear me.
Spring flowers, after all, cannot grow in the shadows.