A Not Picture

I sat watching the tiny dancer twirling in the breeze. Its pirouettes flowing and free with the wind its only choreographer. I watched it leap into the air and become a cloud racing across the blue cloudless sky. I watched its descent soft and unhurried. Its wind dance would rival the most skilled human dancer with both a brain to see a dance and an orchestra providing the texture and mood.

I watched it skip across the concrete. I watched it stop. A tiny twig interrupted its dance. I laughed and asked what it would do now. Its arms reached into the air and took hold of the breath of simple joy. I saw not the end of its wind dance which carried it beyond my vision.

You must know that this is not its picture. No. It is but a moment in time. The picture, keeper of my heart and breath, the picture, its essence is in the dance. And the only camera I know of that can catch that is the heart.