I want this post to be an evocation of the final minutes of dusk last night, coming home on the Fern trail. Some clever metaphor for lightning bugs, a little onomontopeia about the singing frogs and crickets, and then a little simple Frost-like prose about the final sips of water before riding back into the streets alone in the dark, heading home.
I left all the poetry out on the trail. I watched every adjective and conjunctive phrase drip onto my top tube and fall beneath my wheels. Someone is riding the Cadillac trail this morning and commenting, “It must have rained last night, the trail is damp.”
I woke up an hour before sunrise from the deep sweet ache. I walked outside and drank a glass of water, then overcompensated and stayed in bed too long this morning.
I hear the voice of a friend in my head, one of his favorite sayings,
“You got to give up to have.”