Two dancers face across the floor,
The matador and cape.
His suit of lights form fitting tight,
Her skirt a perfect drape.
The silence hums with energy,
The dance floor wants of light.
Anticipation's running high,
Hearts straining to take flight.
From the dark, steel strings are struck,
Then castanets snap loud.
Trumpets bell their fanfare sharp,
Excitement sweeps the crowd.
The spot light's flare stabs at the dark
And brights the polished floor.
Sharp taps and raps of high heeled boots
Accentuate the score.
Step by measured rapid step,
The partners meet and merge,
Into a unit skilled and lithe,
Deflect a bulls hot surge.
With grace and ease, long practiced moves
Flow seamless with the beat.
The twirling red veronica
A famed corrida feat.
A give and take precisely planned,
To layer tension's weight.
Building not so subtly
To a climactic state.
Crescendo's loud to silent peak,
All one can hear is breath.
Then shouts, applause, ole's, bravas
For this artistic death.
Richard Higley © Feb 11 2014
