Legs pumping. Breaths come quick.
Sweaty, blurry eyes.
Nearly sick.
The bluffs are built with pines and oaks
That are passed by with every stroke
Of swiping hand up this land
That curves toward the sky.
At the peak
Passing bikes
Litter the trails
Designated for quick appreciation
Of the mountainous bluffs.
The cycling tires
Swipe berries from their branches
Sending them to the forest floor
Waiting to be found and swallowed whole.
Outside the canopy
The river winks in the distance
Enticing hikers
Down.
Increasing speed
Toward the bowl
Is soon deemed
Out of control.
Runs turn into falls
And falls turn into rolls.
Rolls turn into bleeding
From legs, back, and elbows.
But the running, rolling, bleeding
Comes to a stop down below
The peak of the bluff.
Swallowed by the bowl.
This Is Just to Say 