Shaman

His body is the drumbeat, his pulse turning itself inside out, submitting to whatever the rhythm demands. The bruises on his knees are not his own, the pain in his wrist, shooting upwards through the muscles of his forearms, is an external, cosmic pain. The sound is the sound of lightnings crashing, the rumble of thunder, bones rattling, stones spitting fire, waves crashing against the shore, a river breaking through a dam, mountains moving. His body is making these sounds, only the taut leather is his own, the sharp cymbals, only the balanced sticks. Gods are descending through the stage lights.