Today I rode my bike.

I pedaled up a hill, my heart pounding, my breath becoming more and more insufficient, and at the crest
I relaxed, and I thought about the sweetness of the end of struggle.

I thought about the sad peace in letting go, the sweet and the sour of giving up on something.  The slow and simple melody of necessary death.

All things end.  The difference between tragedy and poetry is all in the timing.

There is a rhythm in nature, bigger than, more complex than us.  The Time is not ours to keep.   

I pedaled on, and maybe 50 meters later, I had to swerve to avoid a piece of plywood with three nails jutting out, eagerly seeking tires to destroy.

It was hot, but I shivered a little.  Too close a call.