Danse des Petits Cygnes
When there’s a song in my head where God should be, I yearn for the ballet master, for winters at the studio, where I was one of four cygnets. Rehearsals ran late. Night swayed on its green stem and I couldn’t comprehend we’d ever be clipped from it. Even seeing us together in our white tutus— like roses standing naked on a coffin—I was soothed by the sound of rain hissing through the leaves.