Sunday, April 11, 2010

I live for the rush.

Words a friend told me.
Riding through newly-awakened
fields and swamps,
critters everywhere,
birds on every branch.
Deep from the hearts of trees
in the stands and copses
green leaked like life-blood,
burning the air with possibility.
I wasn't driving, so my rush did not
come from speed or
the need to remain alert.
Feeling the blues slip from me,
a coat I stripped off
and hung out the car window
leaving a trail of dust, worry,
and the scent of the sickroom.
Between the two Mallards in the creek
and the riders doubled up on big cycles
hunting the long easy curves of these
old roads, there was a space I felt so human
I can never go back to where I was.

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