August delivers a fresh sun and sky as the four of us prance in cotton, hand-me-down kimonos. Our flat, round fans chop the air in jagged choreography. We can’t feel our clumsiness until after the dance when we sit at the edge of the grass, outside the temple, to watch our older sisters, and then our mothers, perform the dance with small, restrained movements, humble grace. The silk fan spreads like a monarch’s wings, curves coyly in front of the body, eyes cast down. The head turns shyly toward the shoulder, and the fan lifts in time to shield the telltale tracings of a smile. We are as silent as the men. But, being young, our attention flickers back to the summer day, the swollen sun and breathless sky where we see flocks of birds, in turn, rise from a single oak tree to sweep and carve the air before lighting on limbs to view the next flock. For the first time, we become aware of chirping as the birds observe each other practicing maneuvers, preparing for their autumn flight. The shadows of birds flutter over grass. They dance with shadows of our mothers’ fans, and we practice with our own crude fans, we four girls, perched as we are on the edge.

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