She’s rarely seen the hills this serene. While the cattle graze in the distance, the tree limbs sway, and the windmills turn on and on, she considers how the entire world is caught up in its own cyclical dance—more graceful than even her. Somewhere down the trail, she hears the crunch of stones underfoot, and voices.
She’s rarely seen the hills this serene. While the cattle graze in the distance, the tree limbs sway, and the windmills turn on and on, she considers how the entire world is caught up in its own cyclical dance—more graceful than even her. Somewhere down the trail, she hears the crunch of stones underfoot, and voices.
The trail comes alive with music. A guitar. A cajon. Palmas. Spirited rhythms that beg for a dancer. The flowing finger-picked melodies course through Dulcinea’s legs, arms, and body, growing in volume and tempo. Her limbs seem to move themselves, flowing in dynamic escobilla and graceful floreo as familiar as her quickening breath.