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41 DeLind’s Dancer You’ll see her only in moonlight. Perhaps on a crumbling dock in a little-known lake or on an upturned rowboat abandoned on the beach. She’s always alone, though often a sound like applause seems to ripple across the water. She remains motionless until the light swims across her feathers layered like yards and yards of marbled silk, each one luminescent. She is the ghost of herself taking the stage. In her hexagonal slippers she is more graceful than you might think. On land she seems too tall, too awkward for poise and polish. But when she bends her knees, then pushes upward, her gown of light is a twittering moth, a schooner’s sails, or what she is: a bird with the magic of lift and dip, a waltz without Mozart, the perfect balance of night sky and elegant star departing for her constellation. ...

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