5 I move to the other side. I see a different light and claim a different context.
My race is a line that stretches across ocean and time to link me to the shrine
where my grandmother was raised. Two high, white banners lift in the wind at
the top of the stone steps leading to the shrine. It is time for the summer
festival. Black characters are written against the sky as boldly as the clouds, as
lightly as kites, as sharply as the big black crows I used to see above the fields
in New Hampshire. At festival time there is liquor and food, ritual, discipline,
and abandonment. There is music and drunkenness and invocation. There is
hope. Another season has come. Another season has gone.
Main idea?