As long as the music plays, we dance. It doesn’t matter that the moon has come out to chase the stars back to the far corners of the sky. The fiddler is recalling every jig and reel he’s ever learned while, breathless, we stomp and whirl through them. We set our fires when the sun first went down, bright and tumbling, but we drive the sharp night’s chill away ourselves. We touch hands and flash smiles and sing words that do not matter.
When the sun comes up, we stop, but have not slowed. Looking across at each other, we know what the things held outside our circle – held back by the daylight – know:
We have conquered.