Night Biking


Night Biking

I zoom quietly over wet streets,
echoes of laughter and smiles fading.

Hissing water sprays out behind the bike wheels
accompaniment for the unseen
symphony of crickets in the night.

Cold numbs my fingers and I can only think
it will be over soon
and my fingers will burn with warmth.

I do enjoy the crisp cold that seeps
through my thin sweater,
sweetens my mouth, and
pleasures my nose with the tang of freshness.

There is a sharp stab of pain
as I wrap my fingers around the cool metal brakes
and
press.
I release and fly faster and faster.
It is so quiet and I feel
I am the only one here.
The only one...
that ever felt
the last breath of fall
as I do now.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

The Patience of a Tree

Image
  The Patience of a Tree By Thea Clarkberg Two paths diverged beneath my feet— One paved, and one muddy, off the beat. I left the cars and bustling street To find a stream, a would-be retreat. Its waters were choked with plastic and waste, Ignored by those who walked on in haste. Among the muck, an egret white Stood still, a fragile, ghostly sight. It flew away as I drew near, Its instinct sharp, its path so clear. What was that sickly sweetness in the air? The stench of death was everywhere. I saw ahead a wolf or dog, hard to tell, Its teeth gleaming white in a sunken shell. I passed it by and did not stay, But the path just stopped and fell away. Some draft of a park the city had planned— Now swallowed up by brambled land. I stood where trail met thorn and stone, Staring at trash the world disowned. The highway thundered just overhead, While the water below ran thick and dead. Oh world, I cried, what have we done? We’ve scorched the soil and blocked the sun. We pass each other, m...
Read more

The Race

Image
The Race You see a leaking pipe, and know— Though slow, each drop begins the flow Of gallons lost to time and rust, A wound disguised beneath the crust. Each bead a gem, with breath inside, As if the water, too, has pride. Not just a leak, but something more— An ocean waiting at the door. You watch the cars in silence pass, A humming stream of steel and glass— That sterile hum, so clean, precise, Conceals the cost beneath the ice. You hear the glaciers crack and slide, And smell the gas the engines hide, You taste the burn, you feel the cost— And know how much the world has lost. You are attune to the song of the world, But the notes arrive twisted, tangled, and swirled. The air you breathe smells sharp with fear, You see beneath the gilded veneer. You walk the world and feel the spin, Each breath you take—a step, a sin. You search the sky for what to bring, To make a place where spring birds sing. You see it then, with eyes grown wide— The grass is greener on the other side. You tear ...
Read more

States of Flow

Image
States of Flow By Thea Clarkberg The fog sits heavy in my head, Ideas drift, half-formed, then dead. To condense the haze, I seek a spark, A focused flame within the dark. A broken mirror catches light Scatters it, sharp and bright. My thoughts reflect in every shard Too many voices, all holds unbarred. When thoughts flood in, like heaven’s rain, Ideas pour, too rich to tame. I cast a net, I raise my cup But always, it’s too much to hold up. The final drops, reluctant, fall No stream, no surge, no force at all. I lie there still, the world upright But I am flat and out of fight. I’ve chased the rush, endured the slow, But never reached laminar flow. Not sharp, not loud, not fast or bright Just steady motion, clear and right. The stillness always slips away— A peace I touch, but cannot stay. -- This poem was created in collaboration with AI. While the themes, structure, and voice were created by the human author, some phrasing, rhyme, and stylistic suggestions were supported through AI ...
Read more