Dead Meadow

Deep in the woods, a single tree falls and leave a space. That space grows and widens, as other trees succumb to the increased exposure to wind and rain and rot. The space fills with grass and small plants, deer wander through, and it hosts a new environment. Meadows are born through death, and they bring death with them.

This meadow was a grave. Many of my dancers lay fallen in their places. Their poses, ungainly, spoke only of defeat. Arms draped crazily across chests, crossing the central line. Unthinkable. Our craft, the manner of our warfare, was graceful strength. No limb crossed, no joint left unsupported. Move from a position of fullness to a new position of fullness. In this way, we had conquered many cities. No more.

I lay on my back, sky clear and far away above me. Where does the sky begin? I would lift my hand to touch it but my strength has left me.

Blades. Arrows. These I withstood, but the hooves were too much for me. Thunder that kills. I lifted my head. At the end of the meadow, through the deep grass, I could see shadows moving beneath the trees. They were amassing for another assault.

I saw the arrow coming. It streaked out of the shaded woods, like a needle passes through a garment, then drifted through air in an elegant arc. I watched it materialize from bright blur into dark line, glimmering-tipped. The head found me and pressed me harder into the earth.