R
rocketman
Guest
A Matter of Attitude
The day started gray, as fall days often do
But the ride in was still pleasant
Dawn lit the mist, softening distant images
When I got to work
The tree were busy preparing for winter
Taking their last long drink of fall
Riding home that afternoon
I took the back roads as I always do
City streets hold no attraction for a rider
If you’re a rider you’ll understand
If not, there’s no point in my trying
to explain it, just accept it and move on
I stopped at an old cemetery I pass every day
And had been meaning to stop at
But never had, today was somehow different
There were headstones that spoke from
Days gone by, Names remembered with flowers
Other forgotten and faded into the dim past
The trees seemed happy with the recent rain
And shook their branches in greeting as I wandered among the stones,
My cohort and provider waiting patiently nearby
Its nearly winter and the colors are late this year
Perhaps nature was just playing with us
I can’t blame her for that, who likes being predictable?
Then it was time to leave
But not before one more stop
The ride and the walk needed a final point of reflection
RM
The day started gray, as fall days often do
But the ride in was still pleasant
Dawn lit the mist, softening distant images
When I got to work
The tree were busy preparing for winter
Taking their last long drink of fall
Riding home that afternoon
I took the back roads as I always do
City streets hold no attraction for a rider
If you’re a rider you’ll understand
If not, there’s no point in my trying
to explain it, just accept it and move on
I stopped at an old cemetery I pass every day
And had been meaning to stop at
But never had, today was somehow different
There were headstones that spoke from
Days gone by, Names remembered with flowers
Other forgotten and faded into the dim past
The trees seemed happy with the recent rain
And shook their branches in greeting as I wandered among the stones,
My cohort and provider waiting patiently nearby
Its nearly winter and the colors are late this year
Perhaps nature was just playing with us
I can’t blame her for that, who likes being predictable?
Then it was time to leave
But not before one more stop
The ride and the walk needed a final point of reflection
RM
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