Wind Blasted Night
Cold, fierce even, is the wind on these February desert nights.
Biting like a thousand fire-ants, it races cumulus blackness above.
Knuckles benumbed grip bicycle handlebars transferring the pedal rotation to directed locomotion.
Up and down go the tireless kneecaps.
Curbs are nocturnal effigies, and gravel, sand, grass, and wind impedimentary.
Dark trails explored become secret grottoes obscured from daylight’s prying eyes
and transformed to fantastic by the night wind.
Sensory inputs rush themselves
upon the sixth sense that enlivens in this hour and place of heartbeat and cold concrete.
Frantic wisps of breeze flounder in the slipstream and chase themselves down alleys of doubt.
A primordial thing is awakened by the wind-blasted night, it grips the bars of it’s cage and hungry, rattles it’s fierce hope and rage.
Thought, blunted by bright day and suave necessity, stirs and asserts itself.
Poetry and Danger dance here in this wind, strange fellows but both with a precipice upon which to teeter.
Chain squeaks on sprocket, breath through incline-shocked lungs races,
it’s own small wind in this small body on a grand planet,
in a grander dark universe.
How we fly through day and night so heedless!
Supersaturated life is distilled now in the rich, cold, magnificent broth of obscurity.
That which is unseeable is at least faintly glimpsed, twinkling teasingly in peripheral perception; phantasmagorical, but near.
Night riding, wind driven, stains cheeks with steaming tears…
and that is a good thing.
My heart beats in this warm black; cold wind.