Whirl, whirl, whirl
The slightly lopsided sound gently rings through the pavilion. Steamy air rolled into more humid air.
A few workers mill about. Innocently.
I know they are here to replace me.
Their heavy gaze from their empty eyes look upon me. They wait to be lifted up to teach me. Their grimy wrenches and chipped screwdrivers in holsters. Instruments of destruction on display for all to see.
My elegant blades spin like the millions of times before. I take a subtle dip here and there. But push the thick air around. I create breezes.
They don’t know I can sense my replacement. Its image gleams on the cardboard box. Fat, pudgy palm tree blades… how well the snow will cling to them in winter.
Still I spin my elegant blades.
Still they wait to tear me down.