VI

I have given up hunting, in order that I may catch my prey.
I wait in silence, that she may stumble upon me, gracefully.

There is the dance of the hunt, done to the drum
of the heart, all raw tendon set to snap the snare.

Then there is dancing for the dance alone, indiscriminate
of subtle guiles, passion for the play of fire in the wind.

The dance of spirit is a flinging into the vicissitudes of all that is.
Simple, silent, sensual, a motion almost standing still.

Finally the dance of freedom finds us, unbound & unalone
knowing where we stand in the ribs of Ourobouros.

Then there is no dance.  Just the dancing, the hunt,
the spiral of the cycles in a whirl, & self.