Her clothes were song in lavender
from lyric mauve to bass of lilac shoes.
She bounced behind her scavenger,
a floating mop on legs, turned muse.
The wind blew wild and practiced,
whisked hair from smooth to scary,
all still before, like life, reactive.
Behind the bakery window, berry
frappe en route, I saw her hand
point hairward (a rolling of her eyes)
then down to her non-Doberman.
The gesture spelled, “likewise”.
And so a wordless Galliard
played out to window-shopped ritard.