"Hope is the thing with feathers / That perches in the soul ... " -- Emily Dickinson
Her days are full: from cockcrow to curfew she studies, chats, laughs and practices, practices, practices. Her ambition has grown like climbing ivy: she longs to dance Aurora or Coppélia and hear applause in foreign accents. The dream's so strong it empties her sometimes; she reaches out and finds only the barre to grasp -- no friendly hand, no cheerful voice, only stumbling inadequacy and pain.
But other times that vacancy seems a promise: the quiet before the overture, the blank page on which to write a happy ending. Then she raises one arm en haut and chassés into the future.