It was an incongruous setting. The harsh artificial lights turned bright ceremonial garments neon and cast a strangely-angled glow on the pink walls of a deep canyon of stone, steel and glass. Snowflakes fell and spectators were swaddled in their warmest for the ten degree Fahrenheit weather. In the background, men on folding chairs surrounded a large central drum and sang loudly to the beat, telling a story, I can only surmise, that was unintelligible to all but a few. The dancers swirled and shook feathers and streamers. The eagle feathers were not, for once, in support of Philadelphia.
