Moving skeleton

The thin, white skeleton rises from the ground with a dry, rhythmic movement. Its joints creak, as if they had been asleep for years and were now unoiled. Its skull is slightly tilted, its teeth gleam in the moonlight, and its two empty eye sockets seem still to be searching for something. It walks with irregular, slightly bent steps; one foot forward, then the other, its bony arms swinging like dry branches in the wind. It is not in a hurry, not afraid. It just moves; as if it has forgotten why it lived or why it died, and now only this silent, eternal dance of bones remains.