Thursday Ride

Summer, and it's light 'til late--
Why write a poem when you can ride a bike
in a shape-shifting group, stretching out
and bunching up with gear clicks
and conversation and always a
whoosh by the ears
past athletic fields with pinging bats
as the pavement follows the land
up into the sunset to that ridge
you can see from all around
and you know you're getting up there
when you see spindly metal towers
sprouting antennae and shouting
god-knows-what to whomever
then down a chattery road
like the devil's stubble under
the wheels then onto a
smooth false flat down
a chain of six riders inside the wind
as we unzip the evening air,
animal alertness and vision wide.