Two amiable strangers, here only to meet me. The honesty of their faces. We are three people in a triangle. You see each face, but none staring at you. Sort of like baseball players on the same team, out on the field, home team dressed in white. A Tuesday night, we practice Shintaido in the grass under a San Francisco sky. The sun lowering from cloud to cloud. Tall trees with falling white-chested squirrels.

the whirl of white on green

I yearn to talk with someone. I yearn to not be so on the fringe. Perhaps I yearn to belong. Perhaps I already belong.

Three people creating openness with movement and sound and breath.

There is no time. When we part we do not part. There is no sadness. A drifting to my faithful friend in her car, and yet I am still here with the two strangers who love enough to show up. I still see white motion on green grass, white clouds on white fire-sun. We stretch into light.

It's good to travel to new places.

To be this whirl of white on green.