Biking

One day, I woke up and jumped on my new blue English bicycle, the outside rushed upon me, crisp and fired up with that final fierce snap of autumn. The garden state, awaiting it's signal from winter, sounded the trumpets of the explosions of ornamentation, leaves, moving with the force of a falling sun, from yellow to that final blood spilled aura of red, matching the color of mama's knitted red sweater, that blew around my shoulders, and I became a wild eyed papoose, on the back of a bike, pedaling with the roar of the November wind, faster, uphill, then down, til I saw the refuge of the hundred year old house, and joined Amy, the old woman of that village, who housed a hundred cats.