The nearby river
rolls as smoothly
as the tires on the bicycle beneath me
that carry me
past the sound of water flowing
and the fishermen who wade across the stream
holding a mucus-covered trophy in their calloused hands.
I climb the asphalt,
beyond the campers,
other bicyclists,
and mothers who laugh with their children
as they both get covered in sand from the river bank.
The only thing I hold on to now
is the smell of a campfire
that sticks to my clothes.
I reach the top
and I turn;
my tires now face the direction from which I came.
I release the brake
that has held me in place,
and the trees, people, and cars
all blur past me.
Mud smacks my legs
as I fly through a puddle
and pull into camp.
Smoke rises up through the trees.
My mud splattered legs
carry me to the steam
where the waters carries the filth away
and replaces it with a childhood memory.