shivas

I've been in a story-telling mood lately.

The drummers assemble there, in their normal place, and I perch nearby like a bird in a tree, or a squirrel, to watch from afar. I am a watcher.

Care for illustration?

Pound! Pound! the drums beat out their rhythm,
like an endless trance. Faster, faster, like a train or a panic attack
The drummers sit upon the ledge, still but for the constant movement of their hands, driven by some inner rhythm spirit inspiration
Pound! sound the drums as the others draw near to watch the spectacle unfold with drums of their own and rhythm in their hearts they join the round
and I

watch from my perch then creep to the side, sit upon the ground, place my hands on the floor and feel the rhythm in my skin and my bones
I absorb it like sunlight as the crowd
grows,
hypnotized, drawn to the drummers, sailors to sirens

and when the girls begin their dance, they move like shivas, transcending the cosmos, creating and destroying with each Pound! Pound!
of their feet on the wood, they dance like goddesses until they're breathless, cheeks flushed,
and when they stop, they grin as though they were mortal after all, and gather their things

and step out into the madness and go about their lives.

and I gather my things and step out into the madness and go about my life

and the drums Pound! Pound! behind me as I go.

I am not a drummer or a dancer. I am a watcher, and I have seen.