Many years have passed but again they are beckoned to join the circle of their beloveds’ dance.
Their knees abandon the aches of wisdom, torsos still bend the way fronds of coconut submit to the strongest winds before falling back to the pleasure of sand, or to water lapping the lip of quiet lives on our island, island.
The older men insert themselves into the circle that grows larger and farther away from the fire, until the chief himself joins with the gong, gong.
This is the signal for the young men, big brothers. They stop adding dry branches of fruit trees to the hiss and crackle — the source of sparks flying up to the tree tops, to the palm fronds, to the sky until they become the faintest of stars.
The children look up and point, there, there, new pinpricks to portend bounty of
