Rhythmic gymnastics

Near evening, the wind tosses crows

high- up between the trees --  like an exchange

of black batons. A dance of iridescence

while the sun suspends its hoops of  light

throughout the dogwood branches.

 

Together, the elements subtly glimmer

while in Rio, the Russian women glittered

from head to foot. Their florescence a version

of Monet floating in overkill. And still, I wanted

to be part of their ensemble but prefer this,

the toss and turn of rhythmic lightness

in late August. The juggling of one season's

last days with another's first. The inbetweeness

of time when the moment becomes

all sky. No beginning or end-- only

 what the judges cannot tally,

the release of hypertension and a soul.