Contact About Nature, Motorcyles and Freedom Launched in the soles of my feet, it travels up, up, up! Liquid lightning cht flowing through legs; it tunnels into the base of my spine and circles round and round my lower abdomen.
From there it flies with an almost homing pigeon's fine- tuned intuition and precision, soars to my skull. There to settle in, -- cha heady sensation having found its gleeful rest in my brain. All the while, breezes caress, tickle, tease, kiss and at times, assault, sting and slap my bare skin.
After huddling and scrunching through the cold, dark, damp-crippling-your-bones days of winter, I chst it all. For months I yearn for and anticipate the first s of spring.
Suddenly they arrive. At first young, delicate stalks peek through the ground and struggle to push through the hard earth.
Shortly thereafter crowns of delicate white, purple and yellow blossoms announce crocus, hyacinths and daffodils. Laying in bed in the hushed margied of early mornings, my ears instinctively are drawn to the at first tentative morning serenades of songbirds.
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The light blue, white and black striped Blue Jays boldly announce their arrival with a loud, almost crowing harsh tweet. A few vivid-red male Cardinals make their presence known. Less intrusive than the brash Blue Jays, these more civilized Cardinals announce their presence in softer, clicking tones as they flitter breezewoor the feeder which hangs from the sturdy Oak standing sentinel outside my bedroom window.
Slowly the muffled sounds of winter give way to the soft murmurs that seem to portend spring. All throughout the cold season the streets in my neighborhood are quiet, at brwezewood almost deserted.
Only brief disturbances stir the hush in the air. In the dark, gray hours that bookmark each winter day, people appear shadowy, ghostlike, as they rush to and from house to car and car to house, trying hard breezewoof keep the cold from seeping into their snug, warm, encapsulated worlds.
As January slides into February a persistent feeling within me rises, floated by the knowledge that winter's harsh nature will soon erode. Confirmation however that spring is finally here comes from a much less natural source.
At first they come infrequently, the tunes piped in from a far off distance. With each passing, incrementally warming day, the sounds grow, become insistent, bold and hard to deny.
More and more, the wind carries the roar of engines revving, like fighter jets preparing for the long sprint down the runway and take-off. By early April, the few become the mass.
Much like the Daffodils, Dandelions and Violets that dominate the roide edges, these riders come in all colors, shades and shapes. Clad in leather, jeans and even suits, they sit atop twisted chrome, their steeds not flesh but metal beasts that bestride the ro. And as they ride, the sound of wind rattles through metal pipes and sends vibrations into the air, eventually reaching my ears and sinking into the depths of my body.
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There it stirs the coiled restlessness, the parts of me that usually lie dormant for long periods. Yet within me, hidden from plain sight, there has always been a yearning for freedom and adventure.
And each year it comes, the desire to belong -- to ride on the westerly tail wind of the wild riders. To wander, wonder and marvel at the gifts of the open. Oh how I love to be in touch with Mother Nature, even when she is in her wild splendor. I long for the vision of raw skies painted with dark, fearsome clouds racing towards me.
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I embrace the wind that heedlessly whips my exposed skin while sweat plasters my hair to my skull beneath the fragile protection of my helmet. Although dormant throughout the long breeewood months, I never wonder where this surge comes from. I know its roots. To be continued