A cool, bright evening with my little brother quoting Harry Potter and Winnie the Pooh by my side, left-right, left-right, and on we go. Pause to savor the fragrance of magenta, peachy, and red roses and admire the exuberance of regal sunflowers against the brightest of blue. Push and step into the cool; a scoop of Strawberry Cheesecake ice cream and one of Mint Chip, both in crispy-sweet waffle cones from Zoey's, then back to the warmth of the sidewalks and the people passing us by. No drops for the sidewalk, it's just too good. Lick, lick, crunch. Until nothing remains. Except the fading sky and a grand hum of classical music floating through the trees and over the creek. A lawn of people and chairs and blankets eyeing a stage of colors and grace and beauty. Ballet Rogue's dancers are aglow in pearly white, and princess pink, and the goldest of gold: making something unnaturally straining look incredibly easy. We can do that. But watching is just more fun. Leaps are my favorite, but twirls are more plentiful and en pointe, the icing on the tulle-and-sequin cake. Only two remain and they do the tango, it takes two after all. Then the rhythm gets some mojo working and the red dresses are glued to the strong bodies jazzing it up, as our eyes are glued to the stage. Returning home on the concrete we try out our new moves, letting the images of the night move our feet in rhythm with the memory.