She doesn’t walk. She lumbers. A massive silhouette against the setting sun, draped in a veil of torn lace and wilted daisies. Her fur is the color of muddy honey, matted with confetti and old champagne. A rusted tiara sits crooked between her small, dark eyes.
Here cums the bride—all five hundred pounds of grief and grace. The music stops. She bows, snout to the dirt. The groom removes his hat. A child throws a single rose. here cums the bride dancing bear
And somewhere, in the darkening meadow, the real wedding guests—the foxes and the moths—begin to applaud. She doesn’t walk
She is not trained. She is widowed. Three summers ago, her real mate was shot for stealing honey from the magistrate’s kitchen. Now, she dances for stale bread and the echo of a lullaby. Each step is a memory. Each grunt, a whispered hymn. Her fur is the color of muddy honey,
Here cums the bride.
She is the Dancing Bear.