The oldest might be seven. The woman calls them in a Southern accent that turns heads, and gravity outpulls her children's centrifugal force. They fall into line for the ride. Doves improvise jazzy arcs, long looped serene stretches, like visual anthems, Coltrane's Crescent . I turn to see the carousel.
Conversation grows to hold lengthening patches of silence.
Perhaps being God would be like being the eye behind the camera, watching folks like us on a night like this. Someone says dunes are essentially waves. The champagne flows from the same wellspring that makes people dance like gods at the wall. It floods our screens, too large for one city, one country or two, until the pictures from Berlin translate into sky over Bethesda. Two couples, right out of Esquire and Vogue , freeze.