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.


About Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner
This entry was posted in Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to Acorns

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s