in the snowless cold
as yule trees
come down
scenting alleys
with life
three women
are
bicycling
it's uncommon to see
three women
riding abreast
gold-scarved
beckoning west.
one is young,
petite,
the color of night,
down-coated,
scarlet bright.
to her left
another in grey fleece,
middle-aged,
coffee-skinned,
her ample chest
wheezes out and in.
on her right
tallest ebony
under white wool
silver haired
fiercely erect
this third woman
sets the pace
urges on, directs.
they've ridden uphill
past the river
into one of the pine littered
alleys
following a star
beside
a rusting car
they brake
locking bikes
to a broken gate.
backpacks slung
they pass through
to a porchlit house
there's
a stair
they ascend,
and a bell
they
press.
pausing
to listen.
a baby cries within.
three
queens,
bearing gifts,
enter in.
