TUTUS AND THUNDER: SHOWDOWN AT DAWN
Dawn flutters on the horizon in a dainty corps de ballet, swathed in pink and lavender tulle. They begin their daily routine to rouse Sol, the sun-god, from his pristine Alpine chambers.
Amid the usual, well-rehearsed reverential chorus of birdsong, the almighty’s red-orange yawn widens as he emits groan-puffs of “do-I-have-to’s” in dangerous shades of purple.
Intimidated, one of the less-experienced ballerinas trips over a purple-puff. The poor soul plummets head-first into sun-spittle, ruining her powder-pink headdress and staining her freshly pressed lavender tutu.
A horrified gasp dominoes along the line of dancers as the sun-god growls his discontent, his core flaming magenta.
“You’re all fired!” he kerpows, reaching down the mountainside for a clap of thunder, and slamming it against an icy peak.
Aurora, dawn’s eternal Prima Ballerina, whose patience with Sol’s toxic masculinity has worn wafer-thin after a few too many centuries of solar sulking over the last bazillion years, hears a dull crack deep inside her chest. Before she even realizes it, she’s in the air, long, strong, sinewy legs outstretched, one scuffed, shell-pink satin pointe ballet shoe aiming straight at Sol’s solar plexus.
“Grumph,” he grunts, bullseyed.
The birdsong goes silent. A sparrow titters, and a robin with a guilty conscience turns bright red.
“Get up and sort yourself out, you lazy bugger,” Aurora hisses, hovering above him, her slim silhouette glowing rose-gold in his light.
Sol squints up at her, his pride slightly singed. “Was that absolutely necessary?” he groans, nursing a sore rib.
Aurora doesn’t bat an eyelash extension. “Would you rather I improve my record-breaking number of fouettés on the tip of your bright pink nose?”
“Fine, fine, I’m up,” he grumbles, exhaling whisps of copper mist that wrap around the Alpine peaks as he heaves himself skywards.
Below, the ballerinas pull themselves together, readjusting their tutus, checking the criss-cross placement of their satin laces. The poor girl who fell over bobs an apologetic bow at Aurora, then rubs at a spot of spittle on her bodice.
The birds clear their throats in a cautious twitter. A hawk tests a low squawk, a pigeon checks his coo.
“Take your places,” orders Aurora, clapping her hands three times. Feet turned out in first position, the dancers gracefully raise their arms above their heads.
Sol sails above the mountain range, his face taking on a hue usually reserved for his bedtime. Truth be told, the dude’s embarrassed.
He attempts a half-hearted pas-de-chat.
Aurora rolls her eyes.
The sky blushes.
***
My brand new poetry book, ILLICIT CROISSANTS AT DAWN, is now available on all the Amazons, and comes with its very own, perfectly curated playlist on Spotify. This book is the perfect gift for Mother's Day (or any other day!) as the cover and illustrations were designed by my daughter, Olivia Bossert, who is a fashion photographer and mixed-media artist.
