Rushing whispers 

crashing waves of sound and fury

bending and bowing, a corps of dancers 

or synchronized swimmers 

stretching from one waterless horizon to the other.

Crying with joy and unspeakable pain.

They cannot dance when tamed,

viciously snapped, 

brokenly even, 

doused to keep them under control.

The uniformity,

predictability,

a form of beauty.

Like a plush, comfortable carpet inside a cavernous exhibition hall

securely cushioning

surrounding each footfall, a cocoon of safety and warmth.

Protection from steps made

Hastily

Forcefully

Lustily

Loudly

Stifling the rattle of cacophonous mistakes

And silencing the dance inside.