A Still Point Flute Player Among the Flyers

In Veracruz four voladores climb a sacred pole, behind them follows the one songmaker. Armed with nothing but colored fetters, these fearless practitioners of ritual begin their descent slowly, inverted near the top. They spin. And twist. And tumble down, controlled. They do not make the rules but perform admirably as birds fulfilling a holy rite of atonement. Their sun is a sign of unstatic stability overhead. Voladores flirt with earth, coming down from their vertical plight. While the piper, the croucher at the apex, he who sets the pace and makes holy melody remains fixed aloft, though spinning like the axis he interprets. I want to be that still voice playing.