After the dance, after that last soft pirouette,
she settled into the hush of evening then sat still as if under a spell

She did so just to think, to breathe, to gather herself back together

It was a moment that carried a quiet kind of grace, as light as something heaven sent, yet honest as red dirt

It was beauty that didn’t need polishing no different than water running steady, like fields stretching wide, just the art of breathing