Deftly,

an old hand

twists a fan out of the papers

A quick flick of the wrist

the flock takes wing

and descends into the hungry flames

the gold and silver foil

catching the sun's rays for

one last wink.

Occasionally an attempt

for escape

but there is none

for the successful are

always returned

to the fire's belly.

The papers swiftly curling

Morphing to ash

The pit rapidly filling

as molehill grows up

to become mountain.

Orange tongues

Soot edged fingers reach up

fueled by the offerings

the mourners respond

and back off

only to come back

when the fire quiets

like dancers weaving in and

around

each other

going out and coming back

again and again as

the flames are appeased

until sated

followed by a quick digestion

and back to the feeding

like the ebb and flow

of water swirling down a funnel –

invariably drawn to the eye.

The fire is a god

The mourners its priests

The papers their offerings

The dance – their worship

When the mourners have been emptied

of their

prayers and

sorrows,

they retreat

until next year.