Four lanes away
the fringe of the park
is a vestigial flash
of when we moved
in herds, sweetly haired
and loping
(whether we were peaceable
or not, I can't say)
A woman stretches up to the willow
and it bends down to her—
all tender compliance—
like a tall lover kissing.
The children about her
are distant figures
stitched into place.
They own the lovely randomness
of a natural event.
From the film of the car window
this tableaux is more real
than travelling at speeds
faster than we
were ever meant to go.
The greenbelt
tightens in a thousand cities
and the same foraging woman
in frame after frame
repeats that complex subtle sway
from toes to hips to shoulders.
She is reaching for something
rehearsed and put aside
so many times, something
just beyond our grasp.