She had outgrown staged confines, slipping straps, cramping shoes, andtutu too. The Dance still pulsed through her like a musical rainbow but:
there was a Peruvian trail summoning her soul more deeply nowthan Prokofiev or Tchaikovsky.
It was time to release her hair, to wear hiking boots the color of the soft, silky,
smiling alpaca she saw in a book, time to see beyond boundaries from a mountain in the sky.
Then her smiling alpaca might tug at the reins held loosely in her hands, andshe would follow his lead with her toes sometimes pointing
inside her worn boots.
Written for The Mag: Mag 193 that inspired with the above image prompt
(Danseuse ajustant sa bretelle, 1895-96, Edgar Degas).