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She
leans against the hard concrete wall, gray on gray, like a stone angel
carved from the hardness of the city. The hard white lights of night glint
off a finely chiseled cheek, high and proud, and spark from eyes dark and
sharp as flint. Stepping forward, she flows like a river into the shadows,
lean and gleaming. Not a move is wasted; not even a breath. Headlights
cast bright bars across her body as she walks. For all the curves, there
is little that seems soft. And yet, a hand might admire those curves as a
craftsman caresses the fine hard lines of a well-made blade. She walks
slowly, confident in her purpose and sure in her step, aware of the
warnings carried on the wind. As she glides past the tall spires of a
wrought iron fence, she smiles, trailing her fingers over the metal. Her
back is straight, her head high, held erect from within by a wrought iron
soul. © 2003 Sonja Torres |
