in the late autumn the temperatures are in the single digits . . . above and below the zero line.
so, when morning opens torn and wild like this
words flutter fast and furious across my thinking
- much like the forecast snow.
do i ride?
which direction do i go first to grab a tailwind on the way back?
how much grip do racing slicks have in the snow?
how long will the hurt last when i drop?
will i be able to keep up?
the answers, are all found as i watch our wheels on the road
which care nothing for anything
other than the joy of quietly passing through this beautiful world
exactly as it is
and not as it might be
or could be
and when we stop and look over the fields at the places where
the sky meets the earth in a soft wavering film of falling snow
words pass through me:
we're here now . . . in this very moment.
it's all that it is and couldn't be anything more.