I see the world on my bike:
bright green ferns and pungent chanterelle mushrooms,
still in the city.
I live in suburbia but
taste freedom.
Music, an escape.
I imagine a better location, a better love,
a better life.
I read and think.
It makes sense; a validation of values, and sometimes
I wonder about the values on T.V.:
greed, gluttony and godlessness.
Nonsense spewed; a sermon for the masses.
I like to hike, too.
Out there, emotions bubble up quickly.
Anger, angst, apathy.
It’s not so much the anger that bothers me,
rather, it’s the apathy that sits with me.
The swaying of the hips rocks the apathy out of the vessel.
A Red-tailed hawk hangs low
over the rolling fields, and
I will die, this is a fact.
Out here, I can accept it.
I rode down Bernal once.
The full moon hung
low over the mountain range
and the stars shared their secret.
I played tag with my niece and nephew on Easter—
I spoke to my Dad at Christmas—
the first time in five years.
I dis-invited him to my graduation.
Reconciliation never lasts long with addicts.
My friends and family inspire me.
I strive for their tenacity, courage and passion.
My country doesn’t seem like mine.
How can I not recognize my part? I am as guilty
as you.
It is not the “fundamental I,”
nor the “deep you” that I find out here, rather:
there is no difference between the “I’ and the “you.”
You are me and I am the hawk. This is the truth.