From where I stand, sun-facing,
toes-rising, hands chair-rooted,
I study the black bird that flutters

its way to the top of the tree
three yards down from Marilyn’s
where Shelley bounces us oldies

on the lawn through an hour’s
workout to the oldies. Focus on a
distant point and breathe, I learned

long ago in yoga, so I watch the bird
circle and land at the apex of the oak
beginning to leaf out—like one

regrowing hair after a bald season.
I wonder if the angel in the tree sees
us, ponders in any way the sight

of eleven women on the ground
exercising, if it trills from afar,
Blackbird singing in the dead of night…

Instead, John and Paul harmonize,
Iwannaholdyourhaaaaannnnd,
I wanna hold your hand,

and we oldies sing along too,
grateful for this glorious moment,
for movement in good company

on a chilly April morning, soaking
in the gently warming sun.