High wire balancing act! Circus-striped tent, red and yellow. Carnival organ music, spun like a jack-in-the-box, waiting for confetti to pop. Children thrilled, eyes wide. There are balloons of every color, the crunch of popcorn and litter under our feet. Smells like fried food and cigarette butts and manure. An elephant triumphantly cries out, its trunk flailing. Where is the ringmaster? When you’re on the tightrope doing your high-wire act, you can pretend, if only for a moment, that the ground does not exist; To turn off your depth perception and trick your foolish self into believing this is all just a painting less than than an inch from your foot. Perfect balance. A baton. A skin-tight bodysuit. A pair of wings should you fall and/or die. This isn’t some telephone pole fantasy. Below there is a lion and a tiger and fire pit. Either could swallow you up. This thrilling entertainment, this masterful schadenfreude. Dancing elegant tap-dancers in fishnet stockings and black berets. Pink lips and pearly white smiles. I just want to turn off my brain. Hairs stand on end, on the tip of my seat as the snare drum rolls the silence away, as we the audience, hold our breath and wait. There is anticipation. There is expectation. That snare drum does not lose rhythm, but continues to roll on. Worn and weary Time, making captives of us all. Baton straight out, horizontal across the body. Top hat tilted, one foot steps. Then another. There are orchestral hits with every step, complete with horns. The high wire acrobat appears unaffected by this noise. They are on different level, plane, reality, dimension. Some hologram Tsunkatse buffoonery. Elaborate gesture in the raising of a leg to bring it down again in forward motion. Almost to the end now, and…fin! There is applause loud and booming, cheers even! Wonderful heroic triumph. Poetry in motion. What is to be said about such gallant an act?