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