Hurry! It appears to have started!

The guests drop down from the heavens as if by magic, making their entrance with much fanfare.

White-robed astronauts, falling out of orbit to a thousand different runways, coasting to a stop.

Chatting incessantly, they watch their neighbors like humans at the mall, not directly but with slanted eyes.

Such a fashion show! The gray, striped jacket with black slippers. The winged appaloosa, enjoying her distinctness, but trying not to show it. The tuxedoed lad, prancing about, wings back, beak in air, savoring the attention. Such a show boat!

The small white one, shy, unadorned, insecure, defined by her one color.

The music starts!

On cue, with invisible command, they arise, like a congregation, maintaining their distance, close but not touching, dancing in unison. A waltz, perhaps? Their freedom evident in the ballroom of the skies, they move as one, composing on the fly, taking cues from some unseen voice. Rhythm and poetry, entwined above the earth.

Ah, to be in their midst!

They circle, talking as they glide. Like wind chimes, their voices trickle down on mortal ears like the first snow, serenading the spectators.

Wing to wing, they flap and coast, flap and coast, staying aloft, now higher, higher. Circling into the clouds, they dwindle into specks and disappear.

Dusk arrives. The land is quiet and lonely, marked by a thousand narrow footprints, a silent memorial to the Grand Ball hosted that day.

Perhaps one day we will be invited.