Acorns

It is still dark on the road to happiness and autumn chills my fingers as I grip the handle bars a little too tightly. Acorns crunch under the bike tires. They crack with a sharp snap that splits the coalescing air of morning, like the sound of well-seasoned oak logs burning on a hot fire. This year there was a bumper crop of acorns, so many nuts that feed animals for every one that becomes a tree. I am bound by the parallel arcs of the white line and the guard rail that follow the curve of the shoreline. Dawn is a pink foreboding of snow.

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About Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner
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