The beauty of man, of woman; child
Each is perfect and of perfect form
Each delightful to the soul, the mind, the heart
The strong enduring curves of women, the hard and graceful lines of men,
the determination of childhood, reaching toward man and woman with arms outstretched.
They are my kindred, my kin, my sisters, brothers, sons and daughters.
I love each: the tanned skin of my female friend as she lies sprawled in the shade, slick with sweat; the white emerging confidence of a man I know; the blond-headed children running dappled through the woods.
It is impossible to enjoy masculine, feminine, parenthood, until you have seen the perfection of each person. Each is wondrous, each kind wondrous. Knowing this makes the self wondrous. I, too, am part of this gathering, brave and full of admiration. I have nothing to hide, nothing to prove. I am none, all, and more myself than ever.
I dace barefoot with this assembled tribe in a trampled-down clearing in the forest, sun sinking, disappearing. The day is night, we are night, swaying like darkness now, trees looming overhead and summer heat lingering in the grasses. Children, men and women, we dance and dance, fueled by the flesh of the animal we have consumed together.