Our morning school driving route almost always passed by a park--one of the former clay pits that invariably became a pond after each rain--where a group of elders practiced Tai Chi, supervised by a colorful umbrella hanging from a wire fence. An odd morning, while strolling to the river, I thought I might have discovered the river spirit, and lurked behind a tree while I observed her. Later, I scribbled this:
She moves away from the manicured lawns
and plants her penny-loafers in the fox-tails.
She fills her palms with pineapple grass.
All along the river-wall
bicycle bells dingle-dangle,
sport-suited joggers jiggle salt-and-pepper heads,
lanky legs flash in leather sandals--
they are dark and they are comely--
lavish pony-tails bob
behind squeaky strollers.
Some of them walking, all of them talking;
maybe a few would-be philosophers,
debating the funding of schools versus wars.
Or perhaps not,
but she performs her part.
She pushes up her broad-brimmed hat,
straightens the collar on a white button-
down cotton blouse, vestments of a
high priestess of morning.
Raising her hands above her head,
Mrs. Yang paints a rainbow.