Timothy Stanley, New York NY, “The Julia Tuttle Rain Dance”
The helicopters were the first to see her. a thick speck of black jittering in the great gray expanse of the causeway. as soon as she closes her eyes she can feel the erupting bass drum in her stomach. prickly tingles shoot up the back of her arms. she is swaying. the helicopters were the first to see her, gyrating her hips and floating the folds of her gothic black chiffon dress over the concrete. she bites her bottom lip and lets the spiking tingles arch her back towards the warm sunshine. water splashes loudly against the pile-ons below. she is shaking. the helicopters were the first to see her screaming and lifting her arms to the heavens. leaning as though falling, she lets her shoulders pull towards the causeway. her fingers reach out to the pavement, their splayed tips touching down gently. white birds are landing on thick metal railings. a gentle flute hovers over the throbbing bass drum and the sharp snaps of the snare drum. she is winding. the helicopters were the first to see the tiny gold reflection of the cameo portrait necklace dripping into the cleavage of her heaving bosom. bending and straightening her knees, she drops and lifts her black chiffon bottom into the air to the pulsing bass drum she hears in her head. she is grinding. the helicopters were the first to see the pink flush in her thick, smooth cheeks. the clouds cover the gray, shining causeway in gray. shadows show in her face. the quickening wind cools her damp and crawling skin but the beat is bigger now and storm clouds are assembling above her. her chest fills and falls. she is dancing. the helicopters were the first to see a black cloud snap. the helicopters were the first to see Julia making it rain.