Yard Rake

"When I do the fan dance

I'm all the red in China

You write your questions on my skin..."
(Sam Phillips)

It's fall and I hear you raking the leaves outside my office.  I step out to watch, and notice that you when you come back around the corner, you have a second rake nearby.  You are raking the yard, but not just dragging the rake.  Your rake is an extension to your arm, your body sways and bends as the rake swings out and back again.  You bend low and close to the ground, then suddenly extend, standing tall to cut an arc through the air, swinging the tines wide. Like a magician with his flourishes, you use the rake as a distraction, your other hand is close in to you, and you slowly undo the buttons down your dress.  It is then that you bring the second rake into play, as your dress falls away and you deploy your rake tines to restrict the view I might have of you. You twist and turn, slowly spinning the rakes around you, the tines shimmying to emphasize your control over your movements.  As you gyrate, you swing one rake in front of you, then cross with another, then quickly turning around and recrossing the rakes behind you, teasingly revealing more and more that you pretend is hidden behind the tines.  You use the rakes to their full advantage, their ability to scrape the ground and kick up dust, the sound they make as one rake clangs another, the impression they make of a pattern of veins as you press one against your leg. 

You end your dance in profile to me, silhouetted against the setting sun, thrusting your body forward with one rake held out high, the other behind you, offering me a first full view of your curves both front and back.  Turning your head to me, "Don't take a picture of me like this", you call out, playfully threatening me with a rake brandished over your head.