If I Were To Write A Piece Of Flash Fiction About The Beard I Grew While Dancing,

I would worry I was spoiling a secret. But how could I worry? The lights would be too busy racing up the side of the tree. The bears would be filled with an overflowing excess of pride at having a chance to share their pantheon of folk songs with all of us. The children would be mesmerized at the fish lit up in their tanks. Eggs would give birth to smaller eggs and both would rock back and forth on the wooden floor tittering back and forth in egg laughter at the fact that no one had hatched as our feet moved and the bears sang and the sentence ran off into the woods with a song in its heart.