Funambulist

Their faces are nothing more than confetti. Tiny little circles that flutter back and forth. I stretch another leg further out and they hold their breath. My foot makes contact with the high wire, and the tiny circles move back and forth again as they are relieved, until I pick up my next leg to do it again. As I tiptoe across, their anticipation is palpable. I flourish my arms for balance, and it looks like a dance. I dance for them. I dance for myself. The confetti is my ovation.