On Salt Spring Island many wear leather hats,
Broad brimmed, flamboyant, hand-made,
And each one uniquely appointed
With beads and feathers and bones.
A young woman, wearing such a hat,
With long hair, a vest,
A long full brown patterned cotton skirt,
Ruffled around the leather booted ankles
Sailed by as I hunched over a coffee
On Lower Ganges street.
She stood on a skate board serenely,
Utterly silent and unflustered
In perfect control down a busy sidewalk,
Her slender, graceful form
Swaying and bending as she steered
Her simple soft wheeled craft,
In a music box ballet
A superior being from another dimension,
Gracefully sailing safely
Accross a street
Busy with cars.
She was a soul of grace,
In her long ruffled dress,
Leather vest and hat,
No effort, no strain,
Drawn along by invisible magnets
Until she vanished.
She may have turned a corner
Or slipped through a time-space portal,
But she was gone.
Follow her still.
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