that sound

pedaling along Piney,
finally find meditative pace
after exploratory 'shwackin.

Feels good to be putting
some scenery behind me.
Lost in the rhythmn,
mind wanders, searches.
Finds a nugget to replay.

Showing a picture to a
friend, Huxley's tag falls
into the embarrassingly
open underwear drawer.

tingle jingle.

the sounds strikes a chord.
it's the sound I'd wake up to.
it's the sound I'd come home to.
it's the sound I'd look forward to
after a hard day in the saddle,
rolling back into camp.

it's that sound.

one of those sounds, immediately
familiar, always comforting. don't
focus on it in the moment, other
things have my attention.

but now, lost in the pedals, let the
ball unwind and chase it to the core.
hearing it, recognizing that its absence
is what's hard to take, realizing the
time passed since last heard.

eventually look at this messy pile
of string and begin to wind it back
up carefully, even more tidy than
last time, and put it back on the shelf.

singletrack's coming.