One evening my daughter and I passed the fitness corner near our home. A group of Chinese gymnasts — girls her age, maybe younger — had taken over the bars. They were serious. Trained. She watched for a moment, then stepped in and did what she knew how to do. They made room. Nobody spoke. When she landed something cleanly, they nodded. I watched from a few metres away and didn't interfere, because what was happening didn't need me in it. On the way home she said she wanted to go back. She couldn't explain why.
This was not a cultural encounter or a moment of belonging. It was simpler and more specific: a gymnast among gymnasts. They could see it in how she moved, and she could see it in them. The craft was the only introduction needed, the only credential, the only common ground. What passed between them — wordless, immediate, mutual — is the thing the poem tries to hold. I looked for a single word for it and couldn't find one.