It was late afternoon when the gale 

of Feng Bo shivered through the skewed alleyways of Sichuan, 

into the parks and

scraping against the ridged 

edges of pavilions flecked within. We dance,

silhouettes in the same breezes, our bodies 

cursive under the same pavilion and as the winds 

accumulated into swells of flurry,

our silk sleeves: 

the swirling red flares in the tempest. 

 

Regardless,

let us move like the swaying willows,

our bodies occasionally arching 

into the concavity of a sprouting orchid. 

Because in the dancing of water sleeves, 

it is the wind that voices the undulating spell.

Which is to say: under each of nature’s sorceries, 

choreography is simply 

a swaying willow.