Men walk down the street,
clad in baseball caps and running shoes,
strutting like greater sage-grouses.
Women walk by in short dresses,
purses hanging lazily off their shoulders,
swaying with the breeze.
It’s quiet with the drawn out, calculated
steps of each passerby.
I sit and think about their movements —
the degree of the arm swing,
the angle of the smile,
the cadence of left to right.
I know someone who walks as if dancing,
an internal metronome pounding
out a beat to which they move.
Each step so deliberate,
each head tilt as if in prayer.
Others cannot help
but take notice of the rhythm,
side-eyeing and smiling,
aware that they too, enjoy dancing.
So It Goes 