Tai Chi Ladies

Like birds

they slice through the air.

Hips above necks,

eyes always,

always,

closed.

They look like they’ve become

part of the wind.

Tai chi ladies.

Their feet hug the concrete,

flowing over the sharp bumps

like a wave over rocks.

They scoop up the sky

with their wrinkled palms,

and

offer it to each other

in a simultaneous,

group stretch.

It’s early;

they’re showing me

what the morning tide

is supposed to look like.

Their bright pants

interrupt the countryside.

Pinks,

blues,

and yellows

explode through the greenery.

They watch me as I jog by,

but their choreography never stops.

Human compasses searching for the south.

They let their swords

revolve around their wrists,

the tassels whipping around the handle.

Their roots have found their ground:

solid base

top, wind.

Their expressions contort

to read ecstasy and focus,

wrinkles writing poems across their faces.

Their hair is the only sign that nature

exists without them.

Eyes always,

always,

closed.

They look like they’ve become

part of the wind.