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  • . . . the court seemed as if hundreds of feet had danced on it, for over a hundred years, for good reason . . .

    Even though nothing ever happens without good reason, she apologized to the critter dislodged from the corner of rotting log bench hit by the errant basketball (she had been distracted by the elegance of the old man’s pass).

    Nearly invisibly, a few specks of dust (mostly red clay, but also the appropriate portion of Cedar ash) next to the small Scorpion, moved, trembling, starting a tiny, slow spiraling dance, rising in the Air and moving across the dance grounds toward her.

    It met her just above ankles, fleetingly pirouetting around her body, gently hugging as it rose, before passing the back of her neck, then ears, like another’s curious breath, and on up to frolic with Sugar Maple leaves. Heartbroken, her spirit took another tiny step from gentleness toward beauty . . .
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