The city is our winter home
the mountains almost a dream
with roaring avalanches
and yeti arriving from the north.

The city has avalanches too
pouring down the buildings
leaving them glimmering and
making the cars wallow
like pigs through their own dirt.

The rains have set up camp
as an army would
to protect us from the sharp winter sun
trying to sneak in low from the south.

Night falls
and what was once
a blanket that felt
comically short for twenty-four hours
is now hard to get out from under.

We are now one in wetness and temperature
with the waters of the great Pacific.

We awake, mount, and ride
(bicycles of course)
no questions
because we can and must.
It is our adventure and life.

In between hidden mountains
and lanes of steaming traffic
we flow smoothly in the wet.

Our hides shed water
or sometimes soak it up
indifferent
for movement keeps us warm
Only our eyelids tire
from blinking off
the drops.

Night falls
and magic rolls in.

On a clear night
sounds carry a sense of infinitely close space
in the howl of a train from the waterfront
or the wail of a saxophone near the highway
blowing its lungs out just to be heard
but only for a block.

And on misty nights
you are alone
with your own breathing
and if held…
maybe a tiny hiss of wet tires
and the silence of the suspended wet sky.

We ride
for how else will spring arrive?

Shannon Wallace