working the muscle

from a distance, the road
might not have looked like much -
a stretch of something, maybe,
a span between mountains,
a length resembling a lost highway,
or dead-end, even, in a certain light,
but no matter - she'd brought her bike.

trusty thing, equipped with sturdy wheels,
a not-too-hard seat, lights, a horn she attached herself.

the days stretched out easy, lithe, quietly fertile,
smooth as glass, and she pedaled that way,
and riding became something of a meditation,
a mantra of knees and thighs, the mnemonic
device of a pedal and gears and lungs and heart
and the delicious taste of pleasure in her mouth,
the subtlest wind at her cheeks, a hot sun
at her back and barely the need
for brakes.

and riding, she found herself oddly still,
needing no encouragement nor reward,
no direction nor speed
no horizon nor hope except
the only thing required:
the simple act of working the muscle,
keeping her balance, watching the road.