There’s a certain symmetry in the flowing white,
the billows of sail and veil, the wind behind,
and prow, heads, plunging onward.
The sun beats down on all women,
those who walk in parallel,
those who glide through the waters.
Feet drag through sand,
though keels slip, liquid smooth,
and the men guide the sails,
steering their flight, soaring,
while the women trudge, child-heavy,
into the falling dusk.