Morning Ride in January

Shelton College Quarterly

Out where the snow and ice have melted
and the creeks rush brown and high
and the shaggy crows perch in ghostly sycamores
and fly out like shrapnel exploding as we roll silently beneath.
There the resting fields are soggy and the scent of the earth
lifts from its opened pores and the cattle stand and stare
and we glide past houses old and new, small and great
sweating up hillsides and then coasting down like reckless children
Screaming as we go
copyright 2017

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