Biking down the road from camp.

I've got a bike. Well, my mom's got a bike and I get to borrow it, free of haggling, bartering or charge. I rode that bike every day a half mile down the road and back. This went on for about a week and then my son was born. I still ride that bike, now and then, though not as much as I used to, before my son was born. Here is a little picture in words for your mind to imagine with:


The tall grass raises up to applaud me and my mom's bike while the temperature drops as a bend in the road lowers me down level with the lake water.

"No need, my friends. The pleasure is all mine," I respond.

The buzzing of power lines and mosquitoes rings in my ear in a confusingly therapeutic way. And as I come up toward the Henkelmen's,
the pink sun sets the trees on fire. It's 10pm. I'm wearing my glasses. My ankle itches. The hand grips are white. The spokes have been spoken for. They...

Clack their way over gravel stones creating snakes in the dust. The air is crisp. It restores me as I breathe it all into my lungs with a religious commitment. My eyes are shocked, stinging from the freshness. A few tears drop down in all the excitement and newness.

Through a cloud of bugs, one goes into my mouth and, after a bit of fighting, I give in and swallow him down to his grave.
I stop in the middle of the road and sound ceases.

A moment, a dog bark. A moment, the call of a loon. A moment... and yet another still.

A truck passes and I watch as it's dust floats over the fields. A minute or so goes by with the remnant still falling into agricultural history.

"Blessings, sweet earth, blessings to you and your ancestors," proclaims the dust. "I greet you with a kiss."

"Welcome home," she responds.