Fans spread out their arms
and wave continuously,
trying to disperse
the shadows that dance,
twirling and tapping
in the orchard of broken trees,
their hands pulling at each other,
at the wind.
Their fists pump the air
the clouds storming,
screaming above them.
A tornado of black wings
and feather kings
(tap tap-tap tap-tap).
Fall asleep in the breeze.
Flaming eyes,
sea-worthy bees.
All listen to the shadows cries.

Lina Curry