Tomorrow morning, after stopping at the farmer’s market for some tomatoes, I’ll head out of town to put down mtb tire treads on recently rained upon trails. The tomatoes will be for lunching, going along with the sweet corn picked up yesterday from the hay wagon parked at the local shopping mart.
Summer. I’m not much of a fan of humidity, but I satiate myself on the fresh produce, sun-saturated that it is.
Do we care for our children’s future when we watch oil spillin’ into the water and turn our backs on payin’ extra for…?
Shoes are clipped into the pedals. Sweat drops onto the sunglass lens. Blurred vision hinders my ability to see the line through Appalachia’s bones. My hands squeeze the grips tighter, false security in a moment of next-half-second unknowing.
I prefer living there, if only possible.
It was May in Prince Albert National Park, Canada. 40 kilometers out and back to see the home of Grey Owl. He loved being away from gobs of people. He was a bit of a poseur too. Not a First Nations member, as self-advertised, though married to more than one woman of the nations. I enjoyed sitting at his dwelling on a remote lake in the southern boreal forest.
My legs ached during the final 2 hours of walking. I heard a loon, its song settling down to bed in my soul. I walked some more.
And then the next day I rode a bike procured from a local bike shop in Saskatoon. The trails on the north stretch of the river were an easy glide, good for breaking up lactic acid.
I wanted Hondo to make a FIFA run into the late rounds. Alas. Paraguay did!
Did you wave your flag with K’Naan?
I drive to work across town.
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