THE BEAR AND THE BALLERINA
In canvas shadows under a big-top the great bear balanced high on the wire he loved.
He skipped and he jumped, he turned forward and back. And sometimes he stood for the simple
reason he could.
He did this alone and in secret, away from the eyes that see only a bear.
He couldn’t sleep in a bed. He couldn’t speak or eat with a fork or button a shirt or pants.
But he could walk the high wire juggling torches afire. And he had never missed a step.
The cable snapped and the great bear plummeted through shadows to death and to dust and to
silence.
Out from a wagon of blue, a ballerina flew toward the dread of her heart’s voiceless voice.
But the horses they knew, and the lions did too. And so did the ballerina.
Great was her fear. Great was the dark. Great too was the silence.
Still, she had learned long ago to dare. This as a child who had met the bear’s eyes and seen past
the disguise. A child who had trusted and loved.
She went up on her toes and into the might of that shadow.
O ballerina, alone in the dark, all alone in the silence. Remember our dance beyond reason and
chance. Beyond eyes that see only a bear.
So she whirled and she whirled and by some mystical chance she caught in her glance the wire’s
strange light. In the eyes of the bear. Who was gone.
To her heart.