once
we stumbled onto a group of young native american dancers downtown santa fe in new mexico. I crossed the street to the plaza in a flash, clumsy with enthusiasm. I snaked my way to the front, fished out what few dollar bills I could find to drop into the donation bucket and then kneeled to watch, wide-eyed. as if I were back in elementary school at assembly, fourth grade all over again.
hours later, I saw them loading drums and costumes into the back of a burgundy minivan, the dancers dressed in street clothes. baggy nylon shorts, neon pokemon shirts. freshly scrubbed faces with the ghost remains of charcoal face paint. they chased each other across the sidewalk while the adults worked, drank mountain dew from cans, laughed, kick rocks. fourth grade all over again.
