First Harvest

Once a year the animal fraternities met at the Great Circle for the Showoff Dance. At first it appeared that the dance was the exaltation of the undeniable strength of Clan Male. Shoot after shoot came in to take its place on the spiral, filling the air with the thick odor of virile flexing. It was difficult not to admire the competition. The most extraordinary bodies of every group would be put up for the dance, clad only in paint, clan headdresses, and breechclouts designed more to reveal than protect. Our hot-blooded purpose sustained by the volatile energy contained in the drum would rise rapidly in our loins. Our scant attire insured that our prowess was displayed advantageously for the women to scrutinize to their heart’s content. This was no celebration of the Alpha Male, it was a harvest dance for the Crones. We were there to showoff in the often-desperate hope we would be plucked from the Tree of Life and devoured.

Excerpt from Ancestral Airs

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