gray chips trace a narrow berm
between two slopes, left down to
a grassy ditch, right down to roots
of taller-than-me grass gone to seed
& spiking thistle, “ride the line,” I cry
aloud, pedal steady, front wheel
straight, thistle grabs, velvety plume
caresses, I stop, pedal again, stop
to pant, to breathe, there'll come a day
when pedal & breath run together
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