the bus; the bike

I don’t realize it as it’s happening, but after waiting, time after time, for the two wide headlights, the familiar white roof – – the numerous possibilities ease their way into consciousness and thought.  Wedge themselves firmly, spilling over onto my lap.

And I forget. Forget what it’s like to leave and start moving actively toward my destination from the moment I walk out the door. Move, forward, freely. Self-directed movement feels like a gift, unlocked, a cool breeze at the temple.

Then it comes, the first ride of the season. No gloves. Moist air. Dripping air, that’s forgotten how to be warm.

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