GRINNING:

 

Crows bitch by dawn light in a wind that bites, just right for cycling. 

A fine rain like like a handbag can of water spray, makes me feel alive. 

Legs pump up inclines, freewheel down the other side. Lungs, thrilled 

to be tested, pull on sweet air, perfumed with summer’s decay. Green 

turns to gold turns to brown, lies scattered on the ground, makes the 

sound of a choir as we ride along the stave, reading the score with 

our succulent tyres, rubber kiss the rhythm of the song of Autumn.

 

(K)