War Paint

Running her fingers through the wet earth she dons her war paint.
Two bands around each arm. Stripes slash each cheek. A dot in the center of her forehead and a streak down the center of her face. Wrist bands and chest paint and two hand prints on her stomach. At her throat, beads of clumped, dried, mud cling like an amber necklace.

As she watches the sunset, she builds a fire. The flames growing larger, the stars appearing brighter, the crickets getting louder and the music in her bones becoming stronger. She cannot help herself. She must be free. The dance courses through her blood. Leaping to her feet she whirls around the flames. Kicking up her heels and letting our loud whoops of delight to the drum beat in her heart.

All night she sings prays to the divine. Her heart becoming open and pure. Sweat cleanses, rinsing her clean – returning the carefully applied armor to the earth from which it first came. At length she rests, curling by her dwindling fire, exhausted yet fulfilled. Like the embers of the fire, she glows. With a smile on her lips she dreams.

As the sun rises once more, illuminating the world, so too is her life once again lit.
She is now ready for the battle of another day.