Listen to Chloe Honum read her piece:
Through a season given to storms, I wake at dawn to practice. I drag aside the living room chairs, like heavy dreams, and play softly a tape of ballet music. Sometimes I go outside to work on grand jetés, to run barefoot and push off from wet concrete, while Mother and Sister sleep. They know that I am changing, but not how quick. Sometimes the sky is violet above a jury of silver birds. Sometimes mist. Sometimes lightning slices the hills straight through and doesn’t hit a nerve.