Ana

A fleet of Chinese kites approaches a poised bank of steely thunder clouds. They march gracefully on rolling gusts of wind; a magnificent sight to those observing the treacherous battle as if it were a film. The intricate colors pause, eyes locked on a wall of rumbling smoke. Rain drops pelt their faces, melting painted armor. Pigment smears across a murky sky. The roaring wind tugs on taut white twine, and the warriors draw their weapons. The clouds advance, quickly swallowing a stationary army; malted puddles rippling at their paper ankles. Shreds of limp, dampened courage dive downward, drowning in the churning sea. Lightning flashes, leaking through the fierce, leaden haze.