Summer sun hides behind the low clouds
Wicking clothes sucks the mist, sweat and bug splat’s
Rehashing my dreams suspended above me
And where I’m at in two minutes flat
Never been this close as four minutes bled
I was learning to fly over Route Twelve
Strange, my bike going rider less up ahead
Still flying low as the little children delve
With past family and friends hovering
Over for six minutes and six feet deep
Gravity has me down as if to say
Time to go home and not to make a Beep
© 2013 Michael Yost 07/10
Michael's Lair 