Mud Month

Every day, I pass over the same lines, tracing paths that carve slightly deeper into the hillside. A furrow grows where the grass won't, sketched in when the ground was still frozen, and etched once the dirt turned to mud. Just add water. If I deviate slightly, the wheels wobble and threaten to throw me over the bars, and I don't often dare to breathe on my brakes.

I run through mud that splashes up my calves, knowing that my feet will find purchase somewhere beneath the surface. Rarely are my socks dry.

02 April 2014 21:59

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