The silver moon offers just a slither of fraternal light, as I doze peacefully beneath my mossy blanket. Above, the damp air is cool, just hours from becoming morning dew. It is still, a bewitched fog - until it isn’t. 
 
Out in the distance, hollow footsteps, iambic in rhythm, weave through the sleeping trees. They churn up the forest floor, in a crackle, splinter and snap. There’s a faint howl of shrill laughter. Then faster, louder racing, rumbling through the ground, rumbling in my direction. Seconds later, they land in a knot of limbs. Their colossal shared frame heaves up and down, exchanging hot breath for cool sips of crisp, glen air. 
 
Heartbeats steadying, they begin to untangle. Four calves, with deep ravine-like muscle, split and extend to either side of the clearing. Facing one another at treetop lofty heights, they neglect their audience of one: I crane to take in the twosome who’ve disturbed my slumber. Their towering bodies, human for the most part, are milky – opalescent in the dappled moonlight. A lilac seam runs vertically down the reverse of either leg, an exposed shoulder glints coral as it twists to stretch, an electric current of turquoise sears along a collarbone that protrudes out of a faultless posture. 
 
Ready? asks one’s twinkling eye, to the other. They still haven’t noticed me, why would they? I’m a glint in their periphery at most. 
 
The other raises their arms, forming a mirror image. I’m on the frozen lake too, holding tight, totally transfixed. Their rehearsal begins. An identical series of points, bends, leaps and lifts, that escalate into concentric spins and spirals. I can’t keep up. As they fling, they call out to one another in jest. Their jokes are low and deep, then pierce without warning, and echo all around the glade. 
 
My sidelined adoration tries to make sense of the performance that unfolds. Their affinity is hard to grasp - an unspoken parallel that could come from bloodline - only at times, they hold each other like lovers. A teasing dip or swallow that feels more like courtship. What do I know? 
 
One lifts the other into the stars, then trembling threatens a drop. Of course this collapse never comes. No force that could tame this otherworldly duo. They are untethered entirely, a constellation unto themselves, surfing alone on a cosmic plane… right here on my doorstep.
 
They’re slipping even more now. I was sure of an elegant forearm, just moments ago, but now it’s a winged mass - stirring what little air is left in the atmosphere into a furious whip. My neck longs to droop, but it’s forced to twist by the rush. I can’t turn away. Then the other - I’d been certain of an aquiline nose - but what’s there is now much wider - spanning a Samson’s muzzle. Deep crimson eyes dart wildly… and then, they dart to me. 
 
Is this my invite? I want to join so badly but I’m immoveable of course. Not as a contrarian, but due to my roots. My freedom is betrothed to another. I can’t choose. I wait, watch and hope. I have only ever yearned for something that I don’t yet understand, which is to leave behind all that has nurtured me, to be flung far far away. I long for nothing more than a transformation of my own - perhaps into woman, perhaps into beast. The only thing more driving than the dancers’ feet at my head, is the prospect of never being able to join them. Never following their spirit into the night. 
 
I shrug, it’s not my time.
 
I wake the next morning under cherry red skies. Untrampled, unpicked and unremembered. Alone again but for a singular white feather left by my side. A keepsake to remind me that eventually I’ll lift off the ground, for I wasn’t born a bird, but a flower.
​
One lifts the other into the stars, then trembling threatens a drop. Of course this collapse never comes. No force that could tame this otherworldly duo. They are untethered entirely, a constellation unto themselves, surfing alone on a cosmic plane… right here on my doorstep.
 
They’re slipping even more now. I was sure of an elegant forearm, just moments ago, but now it’s a winged mass - stirring what little air is left in the atmosphere into a furious whip. My neck longs to droop, but it’s forced to twist by the rush. I can’t turn away. Then the other - I’d been certain of an aquiline nose - but what’s there is now much wider - spanning a Samson’s muzzle. Deep crimson eyes dart wildly… and then, they dart to me. 
 
Is this my invite? I want to join so badly but I’m immoveable of course. Not as a contrarian, but due to my roots. My freedom is betrothed to another. I can’t choose. I wait, watch and hope. I have only ever yearned for something that I don’t yet understand, which is to leave behind all that has nurtured me, to be flung far far away. I long for nothing more than a transformation of my own - perhaps into woman, perhaps into beast. The only thing more driving than the dancers’ feet at my head, is the prospect of never being able to join them. Never following their spirit into the night. 
 
I shrug, it’s not my time.
 
I wake the next morning under cherry red skies. Untrampled, unpicked and unremembered. Alone again but for a singular white feather left by my side. A keepsake to remind me that eventually I’ll lift off the ground, for I wasn’t born a bird, but a flower.


Words by Georgia Stephenson