Every summer evening,
starting around five,
these slow moving creatures
leave the dull comfort
of their city apartments
and make their way
to the park which
is shaded by the
broad leaves of
welcoming trees.
From a distance,
it looks like a mass
migration of
Christmas crabs
coming out of the forest
en masse to reach
the regenerative
powers of the sea.
In thick soled shoes,
flowered dresses,
and buttoned up shirts
they crawl through
this verdant space with
a noble lentitude that’s both
beautiful and hypnotic.
You can get so lost
watching them saunter by
in their gentle
hand in hand stroll
that before you realize it
all the park benches are
full — the murmuring of voices
in complete harmony
with the shimmering leaves
of the trees.
Wander to the bluff
and you’ll hear the loud clink
of metal as the more active
of their kind engage in the
ancient game of bocce ball
that leads to the same type
of oohs and aahs you might
experience at a game of
little league baseball.
On Tuesday and Thursday
nights you will see a gaggle
of them in front of a stage
dancing together in a
circle or in pairs
swaying to the rhythm
of a classic cha cha or salsa.
Even those who can’t dance
tap the beat with their canes
or watch as they
savor their gelatos.
What is this magic
that transforms these
visibly worn bodies
into children
three hours before dusk?
I don’t know.
All I know, is that for
a moment in time,
each day,
the precious crabs of
León, Spain
take over this space,
fill it with their grace
and make it their own,
and to me,
it’s the best show on earth.