Spring evenings are made for riding
through twelve distinct neighborhoods
past five libraries, through seven parks,
across two creeks, past one lake and
one internationally important wetland.
But the trail ends where they're building
the new Dodridge Street bridge,
so I turned around and came back,
retracing the same path in later light
like Heraclitus stepping in the same river.
Halfway home my phone rang,
and I talked to Greg for a couple of miles,
delighted that he's healed after surgery,
an unexpected pleasure and receptive ear
for my own sudden course correction.
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