The bike

The ground is so dry it crackles,

making rain seem a miracle. 

The soft, small drops fall in lines across the 

wet gravel,  shining the green leaves of the corn, 

the brown soil darkening like steeped tea.

The trees hang arms over the road,

 their green saturating the gray air tinting 

my view of the road ahead. 

Then, the sound of my breath pulsing up the hill.

pedals flying through water, imagining the beat is like wings. 

Do I belong here on this scarred, tamed earth, 

flying through this misted air? 

Sometimes, I’m inside this hard case, looking

Sometimes, my skin drinks the air.