Paganistan: Notes from the Secret Commonwealth
In Which One Midwest Man-in-Black Confers, Converses & Otherwise Hob-Nobs with his Fellow Hob-Men (& -Women) Concerning the Sundry Ways of the Famed but Ill-Starred Tribe of Witches.
The Dance of the Green Men
In the clearing, the drums throb.
Suddenly he's here among us, the Green Man: stark naked, green all over, shockingly green. The green leaves of his crown, his wristlets, his anklets, rustle as he dances.
Then there's another, a second, dancing among us. The two Green Men meet, dance together, and spring apart again, laughing.
From the woods, more hooting laughter. A third Green Man leaps into our midst, then a Fourth, but this one's a Green Woman. Her green breasts bob as she dances.
The Green Ones join hands, circling the fire. Then they peel off outwards and suddenly we're all dancing, dancing with the Green.
What, after all, is life but a dance with the Green Man?
Our dance reaches its thunderous climax. Suddenly, they're gone. The drums crash to a halt.
From the woods, one final hooting peal of laughter, mocking, fades into the distance.
We stand panting. Wine passes from hand to hand, gift of Him Who is Lord of Leaf and Tendril.
When the drums reawaken, our dance resumes.
The woods watch as we dance.
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