LARK ASCENDING Eric E. Wallace The silence was exquisite. Amy loved how the expanse of virgin snow seemed to hold the air in thrall, breathless. She slowed, stopped. The slight swish of her skis ceased. Her soft exhalations grew quieter. From the side of the trail, a branch cracked, clumps of snow mule-thumped, a raven grated. Stillness again. Above the white expanse, a morning alpenglow reached out, yearning, to the horizon. The air quivered with possibilities. Amy resumed skiing, feeling perfect rhythm, perfect balance. To be a dancer, she thought, is to dance in all things, in all ways, at all times. On stage and in the studio, of course, and not just in the pieces, but in the classes, the stretching, the exercises, the repetitive slow building of the choreography, even in the tiredness, the aches. To walk, no matter where, with poise, with a lightness of step, testing gravity, always ready to loat if gravity miraculously no longer resists. And the arms, oh the arms. Consummate instruments of grace and power. Cross-country skiing made a ine counterpoint to her dancing. It was a diferent way to respect her muscles, her breathing, her bearing. A time to combine exercise with contemplation. Today she was deep into thinking about next month’s solo, a new work she was creating herself. She loved being a member of the company, blending into the whole, the luscious synchronicity of the ensemble pieces. But the solo, dancing to her own design — the choreography, her costume, the lighting, all of it — that was reaching toward heaven. Her piece was about unfulilled longing. She was thrilled with the music she’d chosen, a romance for violin and orchestra beautifully suggesting a soaring bird. It spoke to her so intimately she rarely heard it without tears emerging. The raven, the black-feathered trickster, rasped again.
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