She is a performer that one,

like the daytime leaves,

flicking their taunting green dance,

flashing pale underbellies,

like untanned breasts,

always lighter,

than the rest of a woman.

When the sun sets she is the leaves of night,

almost black,

flipping with the same vigor,

finding new pride in the secrecy of this air,

a menacing pride,

a tangible pride.

In the darkness she moves like the tops of the trees,

carelessly,

wholly,

with a violent grace belonging to a long past battlefield empress,

mismatched steps,

meaning nothing,

for proclaiming clumsiness means death,

to any swordsman.

Like the leaves,

deciduous,

certain to fall,

as all leaders must fall,

she dances for the joy of still having a head,

beats playful greenness through her impatient mouth,

she is a performer,

that one.

Like the leaves,

she does not know the wind moves her.