Going everywhere on that little yellow bike. To

the base of mountains and looking up at the

boundary where snow becomes rain. Retreat just

below treeline on account of distant thunder.

On the downhill a pebble could mean disaster,

but make s-turns: wide and coltish. The chain

whines and grates and spits out flecks of mud.

Pedal down-up down-up down-up. Choke on the

wind in your face.

Notice a talus field in the distance and make it a

mission. Leave the bike tipped over – sweetgrass

poking through the spokes.

Will yourself lighter while traversing a warmed

snowbank. Scrape your legs wading through

fens. Go waist-high in streams buzzing with

electric cold. It’s really all very American.