Fast with twists,
I quickly float over puss-covered ground.
The woods dormant silence
is broken.
Tires hard, temps low, screeching loudly across frigid snow.
Like a class room and squeaky chalk
I stop.

Breathing gets harder,
escaping the drops, trying to flee
to the forest. The leaves, splayed like a fan, begin beating
like a pulsating drum.
I flow, shattering puddles, letting tires role
like paralyzed symbols.
I stop.

Long and perpetual
I climb as the suns rays eat my vulnerable skin.
A cicada’s high-pitched whir changes
wind howls.
The dirt is packed, my tires sprint, revolving over the track.
Like oil poured on the edge of a wok
I stop.

Sniggled paths,
become disguised by a flaky skin of leaves.
Cozy nooks provide shelter. Drowsy animals
Startled.
My tires part the seas, as I effortlessly glide through a cold breeze
like a soaring hawk.
I stop.