Racing Home

A dome of clearest blue arches high above the land wispy thin clouds blow upon the growing wind majestic mountains rise peaks thrusting into the sky darkening clouds there do grow like dark castles in the sky jagged rocks do barren lie little soil there does cling plants there cannot grow where the rain can run free the air does take a chill as the wind is mighty grow slicing through the summer clothes too thin for that which comes quickly races the bike rushing to a beckoning home the warmth of summer ride cut short by coming storm rain drops fat and full wash down on mountain high in gathering streamlet’s does grow carrying precious soil away pebbles now do shift and stones do wiggle free and then with gathering speed fall downward upon the road