Speed with Direction.

I rode a green bike through spring. I could feel the flowers rush past me. Their pink scent sparkling in the golden light of late afternoon. I gripped the handles tightly, the calluses on my hands hurting with effort. The smell of bruised leather mingled with clouds of cherry perfume. The air turned cold as I flew by, my destination becoming as solid as the iron heart of my handle bars. I found myself in the midst of a moment, between effort and realization. I saw myself: head bowed, knuckles white, jaw tight. I laughed. I laughed with the bees who amble, full of buzzing mirth, to the next flower.