Twirling
From within the grey fog a twirling figure appears. Big babushka skirt and 3 stone boots, cardigan matching the fog and a shock of red hair appearing and disappearing from underneath a purple scarf.
I’m twirling in the mist
Because I know what I miss.
Because I don’t know
What else
Makes sense.
At first faint but gradually louder, the sound of running water. The sound carries through the mist. Muffled, it eventually reaches the teeny ears with red hair tucked behind them.
The twirling takes on purpose and she moves towards the sound, following the gentle trickle as it gets louder and louder. More sounds come to her now: twigs breaking under the 3 stone boots, the clicking of squirrel claws as they scurry up trees in the wake of her twirl.
The fog is clearing now, the mist takes on warm smells of earth and mulch. From within the fog, her hands and 3 stone boot-clad feet appear. The twirling slows as yellow and red leaves shine from underfoot.
The carpet of fire-coloured leaves is now all she sees and the twirling stops as she takes it all in. She’s dizzy, a little unsteady on her feet after swirling so. In one fell swoop she sinks to the ground and sits down on the carpet of fire. A whisper of damp seeps into the babushka skirt. The smell of earth is stronger closer to the ground.
The sound of water, running water, brings her back to the present moment. In front of her is a river, the water at once running and sauntering. Little mirrors of calm appear on the surface, quickly replaced by whirlpools and rapids. Drops and splashes dance on the surface, briefly free of their riverine existence. Calm and chaos all together.
She’s quiet now. The fog has disappeared. The cold and a hint of damp are rising through her but she stays sitting, enjoying the sight of something else twirling for a change.
