Evening Hills

The hills are like a woman 

sleeping soundly on her side,

off in the distance, not

really getting closer,

while beneath me the

bicycle rhythmically sways

in a dance of chain clicks

and my rocking hips,

staccato breath coming

now in triplets as flicks

of rain land on my

tanned forearms

as the mottled black

pavement slides beneath

and my attention is drawn

again to those distant hills--

all blues and grays

below a sinking sun

with those familiar curves

of hip, breast, shoulder--

clear but distant, unreachable

tonight, under my own power--

so I am on this hillside here,

holding close its serpentine road,

this scene nothing like that

soundly sleeping woman--

that trust and ease of sleep,

that simple comfort and shared space--

ride as hard or far as I can, or I will,

but I can't quite get there.

It's the things far off that draw me

the most, hovering as these hills do

at the edge of my vision, but still clear

as the wind whistles over me and the

road, the ride and the wind shake loose

thoughts that become these words.