Curvaceous form splayed out on the grass in sensual spasms of night time glory. The music postrating itself along the ground, cadences seeping into her ears on that make shift bed. Faded linen, leather straps, muslin cloth, flapping around her, sails of clothing preventing the itch of grass from getting to her skin. Albeit her arms, neck, and legs, which were missing garb, in want of the cool caresses of a nearly nonexistent breeze. Rather, the wind was thick, sugary, heavy with the fragrance of herbs and flowers, reincarnated with the spring. Fingers were drawing out lines in the air, with blades of grass. The wind on occasion stealing from her, her instrument, where it fluttered down a bent, finger print strewn strand of crooked grass.

And so many of these grew around, molding along her, a semblance of like silver beams, follicles of light broken into something tangible. Moon making amok of pliant blades.

The moon stood not far off, dowsing itself in a line of trees tither, it’s glow soft, not so harsh and demanding as the sun’s presence called for.

It was around this edifice of music and dance, that she has taken occupancy. Freeloading off strumming violins and tremors of the base, without having to take a step in. Sit down. Or order something and force herself to choke down their food, just to enjoy a night’s outing. Oh, she could go in, if it pleases her to. But childish fancies led her to stay out, womanly discrepancies provoking her to avoid the crowd and bothersome mortals indoors. But then, if things get droll in this quiet frame, she would drag herself up, and add herself to the building.

Without a complaint.