Bluebird

Every morning down by the lake,
I pass a group of six to a dozen devotees
practicing tai-chi,
moving through intricate passages
of ancient choreography.

But today there’s only one of them,
an older Chinese woman with a burnished face
and inward concentration,
arm coming down,
foot coming up,
in the slowest of slow motion.

I stop to watch,
and wish I could join her
to give her a bit of company,
but I don’t have that kind of patience,
not in this moment,
and not for the years of practice it would take for me
to match her gracefulness.

What I know about myself is
I’m happiest when my mind is flooded with characters
striking up playful conversations together
and spinning out stories
with intricately choreographed plots.

So I continue on my walk
and, look at that,
a bluebird flashes in from behind me
to land on a bending branch
five feet away.

I look into her eyes,
she looks into mine,
instant stillness.
I see you
seeing me
seeing you.
Neither of us needs
anything more complicated
than this.