by Ira Woodward

Created on: June 10, 2008

I mount my aluminum steed
Its saddle conforming to my butt
Like the tongues of old lovers.
I have no time to notice
The grit dusting its frame
Or the rust speckling the chain;
My eyes are on the road
And the overhanging trees
The early morning light on passing buildings
The incoming storm.
Sweat beads on my forehead
As I race through red lights
And pound up hills
Cooled by the wind of passing
Cars and trucks.
Through the city and beside a river
Up a forested hillside
Lunch above a cemetery
Graves overlooking the
Scraped sky
Miles away.
A Winter of
Long shadows
Numb fingers
Precious discoveries
Sore legs
Cold lunches
And boundless freedom.

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