Tickle and Burn

The urban sounds fell away at nearly the moment my wheels dropped off the lip of the pavement and into the dirt. It was odd, for the first lap, at least - the silence. No one rattled at me, no planes droned through the sky, there was no familiar booming from the conveyor carrying its burden of rocks from the quarry, no birds took flight (I didn't even see mr and mrs Dove). Even the evening breeze had been hushed. The bike rattled and the rocks shook beneath it but, for just a second, even those were silenced when I took an opportunity to loose the bonds of gravity while running down the Steps.

August shadows bend out across the path, stretching away from Sun, whose golden fingers tickle and burn darkened leaves. My eyes fail, moving in and out of light, but the trail is familiar and I can trust to instinct and memory without dropping speed. Someone calls out "pedal, pedal, pedal" - it is not the voice of Coyote, and the momentary flick of my head is not long enough to pinpoint the mouth. Never-the-less, it is what I do -  pedal, pedal, pedal.

valley-side sunset

for as long as the Sun allowed, I had company