The skin loosened long before the lanterns rose.
Last year was quiet shedding.
Not failure.
Not delay.
Release.
Small layers.
Old tension.
Versions that no longer fit the body holding them.
Now the Horse arrives with fire in its breath.
Not to rush.
To carry.
Movement, finally unburdened.
What looked like stillness
was the body learning how to let go.
First the shedding.
Then the stride.
