Every person only gets so much steam. It is up to each of us to decide how to use it or let it leak out of its own accord.
No pictures, just words. Steady rain knocking fat magnolia blossoms onto the sidewalk like fried eggs slipping onto the Waffle House floor. The smell of them so sweet it is pornographic and I blush just driving over them in the road.
A bike ride last night 20 years overdue with Joey B and an old friend who ate potato soup on a cold day while carving out the first mountain bike trail in Tallahassee that I ever knew of, sweet Grandma Munson. Maybe it was potato soup, or maybe said he built a chicken coop, his pink bike spinning so fast I heard nothing but wind.
A fresh clean burn on the forest, setting the crest of Woodpeckers off in contrast with the matte black floor of the burned pine needles, green shoots of grass already reaching up over pedals. Long views through the missing underbrush, blueberries hidden off the trail not quite ready.
Just falling into each pedal stroke hoping to never hit the bottom, yarding the next one up around the 12 O' clock and then hammering towards earth. I can hear them back there, one wrong move and they will have me. No wrong moves tonight though. I'm all on the one and riffing on the breaks.
The way points north to Alabama tomorrow. I'll lay my head back and watch the sun shine down on the great south and loll away the miles while my girl pins it to the white line and cocks her foot up on the dash.