drabble; choreographer.

Her feet seem to never touch, every new movement is at one and the same time a continuation and an independence of the one that went before. Only the shadows lightly brush her arches. The sun separates everything, sharply and whitely. I can't move like that, so delicately phrased, it's not a gift that's been given to me. The sky weighs nothing with how blue it is and she dances in the grass beneath the trees, an improvised performance meant for me alone. "How do you manage to hold on to the moment," I ask while she spins around her own axis, somehow not getting dizzy from it. She speaks up into the air, maybe addressing the birds, maybe addressing me: "You have to finish the first step, before you can start the next."