I feel dancing. Dancing. Whirls. Stories told of olden time and stories being made today tonight. Tomorrow if it is meant to be.
A flash of red between the trees ahead. Brave colour in this place of green and brown. Do they not fear? Or is it courage? Music made to hide the fear or music made in careless joy?
Move forward. I see. A person of elaborate grace in sudden silence, hand extended far to left, bows deeply with right hand held palm upward before the chin toward someone I cannot yet see. Head bent up and facing invisible one. Dark eyebrows slight smile warm tan skin brown eyes on a face whose sex I cannot tell. They are beautiful in some secret-seeming way. There is no guile in the face but only deepness, mystery. It pervades everything here, not like the simple forest I called home, but perhaps when I was there, my eyes were not open. They are open now wide and pleasantly taking in this new oldness, this ancient lack of time, this eternal wood of dancing.
I once lived in greenwood. Greenwood quiet neither hot nor cold, things not human asleep or on the border of doze. Sometimes at night the watchers watched and dreaming I could see the ones who were not wary. Old calm spirits waited for the time to act, plans made long and long before. I waited drifted in silence and dream in day and night and all the many tones of twilight in between. Hoping the spirits would say nothing. Not to me. Let me see with love the flowers in the clearing, let the deer slip into sight among the trees and turn invisible again. Let the sky be leaves, let vision be near. I am oak and elder. I the owl. The boy the man in greenwood. Leaves of fingernails. Fingernails of leaves. Forest ever.
The caravans are lined up loosely, wooden wheels still for this time of peace and making merry and dancing the dance of love. Deep in the woods the trees from which the wheels were made. This is our time. The forest gives us almost all we need but not quite every thing. The metal we wear and the metal we cook with came from other places. Outside. In that other world where sometimes we must go, where we must make our fortune by telling the outsiders the otherlings what they want to hear. Beyond the forest is a torture; beyond is where we are false to ourselves. Where we are false to the otherlings. I shall wear no bracelets. I shall cook on wooden spits. I shall eat life raw. I shall be true.
In these woods of dancing there is fire, fire and passion in the humans. Even in the night they we I are rarely still, but eyes and metal flash and turn in light of flame. Inside and outside we burn and shine. Clatter and shake and ring. Look into the eyes of feeling and see your own in those. Whirl with me.
Lancelot Price, begun in evening of a Tuesday or a Wednesday. Who can tell when day is said to begin at midnight? The month of the writing is March, for all or nothing this matters.