From his apartment window he can see them every Saturday, at least ten aztec dancers in full feathered array. Their tropical colors extending from their headdresses, slicing the air.  They step and jump with hundreds of tiny shells wrapped around their ankles and wrists, shaking in unison to the rhythm of a beating heart. He likes to open his window to let the smell of their incense enter his home. The smoke carries through his window screen and permeates his pores as it makes contact with his skin. He doesn’t understand why it reminds him of sitting in a church.

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