Ride to the River

I.

After a day of cutting,
crouching and painting,
the power in my legs
surprises me.
The bike leaps forward
and I need:
more gears
more teeth.
The chain clatters,
snaking through its cage.
Muscles, not motors.
I am an escapee, a fugitive,
on a ride to
the river and back.
Cracked pavement,
whistling wind,
the bike sure beneath me
as my weight shifts
in a turn. Chasing
my lengthening shadow.


II.

The river today:
blue, black, gray.
A string of forgotten
balloons dances in a
casual breeze.
Lines in the water,
wood smoke in the air—
props for conversation
as fishermen settle into chairs.
Catch, throw back,
repeat.
Notes of conversation
drop through lulls in
highway wind,
an easygoing rhythm.
Working men’s days,
ending at the water.