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Its dark,
yet peaceful
beneath a tree.
Looking up,
a canopy of leaves
over my head,
sunlight filtering through.
Making dots
along the ground,
like a spotlight
on a stage.
It is time for the final act,
the best fanale of all time.
Birds stop their endless singing,
to watch as I dance around the stage.
A fawn stands by,
partly hidden
by the great oak,
the conducter.
With arms waving,
he leads me
in my
dance.