Midway through my elliptical
at the condo gym, two women,
maybe a daughter and mother,
stride onto treadmills.

Their belts going round drown
my classic rock on the radio,
and it takes me a minute to realize
they’re speaking Spanish I believe.

I try to decipher the meaning,
though I don’t know the language.
Syllables rise and fall
sweet as the cadence of bows
on violin strings, the trance
of water over stone.

I want to thank them
for their mesh of words,
but clasp the pleasure—
a cache
to replay.

-Karen George