the wind dance

on a clear, borderline crisp afternoon, she sits sea side, bike kickstanding, while watching the kites chasing kites on a backdrop of mountains.

the fliers are conductors, the wind the orchestra, the sight the sound.

people stop everything. they slow their pace to a standstill, chin cocked and eyes squeezing out the glare of the sun as they watch the dance, every-coloured nylon on sky.

exceptionally choreographed, the fliers mimic the dance on the grass while an old man steals it in his 8mm for later.

she watches the fliers and only the fliers now, erasing the handles and strings that attach them to the sky. the mimes, enraptured in dance, push and pull and push again, lunging, hands up by their ears, extending their arms from the elbow, down to their hip bones, compensating for drag, all slowly and in control.

it is a native call of sorts.
delicate fury, winds tamed, hearts unearthed.

each flier hanging from the sky, as grounded as the kites are weightless. they act in perfect unison.

there are three types of fliers out on this afternoon:

1. the fliers who taunt the wind. who test their skill by flying their diamonds, stars, triangles, boxes, straight towards the ground before tucking it back into the blue, flirting with disaster.
2. the fliers who play with the wind. who make soft lines, loopy figures, and pretty designs, covering all territory, exploring the sky as they would a lover.
3. the fliers who fight just to keep their kite airborne.

but they all have the dance in common.

it becomes a meditation. each ritualistic loop, each tantric figure eight.
it is easily the most perfect place to be at that moment, in that weather, on that day, in this city.

but as in every story, beyond these fliers near a granite sculpture on the far side of the field, a young girl struggles to share their sweet air but instead ends up walking her kite like a dog.