Flurries

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Quiet.

The sun beats down on the bleachers. They are hot. People carry umbrellas, wear baseball hats, shimmer with shiny oil over their skin: anything to keep the sun off.

Tiny birds flit around the tennis courts. They launch themselves from their corner mud and grass nests, inched between cement arches that shadow the walkway from the gym to the exercise center. They tumble about the air, like children with wings, fluttering over the swimming pool, across the dry grasses which sweep across small hillocks; they overlook the sparkling bay, a hint of the sun caught in their eyes as they flash through evergreens.

A battle is taking place on the court below. A slash, and then a flurry of green.

The people on the bleachers erupt like an explosion of energy. He (the winner) holds up his arms in triumph, while the other (not the winner) slumps his head, swings his racket a few times, and then walks to the net and vigorously shakes the hand of his opponent, and then hugs him. The television crew crowds around the winner, hoisting the microphone in his face.

The people begin to disperse, fading away like ghosts, yet their energy remains on the court.

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