Rooted, I used to think.

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Tuesday, Aug. 07, 2018 @ 11:54 am
No Hands

I learned to ride my bicycle with no hands.

I ride down along the river dyke at sunset. A wind blowing down through the valley. My summer uniform of sundress and suede moccasins.

I lift my hands tentatively from the bars, pedal two or three turns, and then there is this lightness in my upper body, and I am free.

Arms stretched wide, the wind blowing warm around my legs.

I'm flying.

The sun about to dip behind the mountains. Crickets flinging themselves away from the tires of my bicycle.

A family grilling burgers on a picnic table. The crack of a home run hit at the ball fields. A man sleeping in a hammock strung between trees at the high water mark.

My front tire hits a bump, and my hands return to the bars.

Grind up the hill towards home.

Roots | Shoots