twenty-seven

the good weather broke today. laying in my bed this afternoon, reading, i watched as bluegrey clouds colonised the sky, squat and hunched, and listened to the rain's steady drum.

the wind changed too, became spiteful and sharp, a wronged friend. walking back from the train station this evening- i went to see dancing at lughnasa, at the old vic- my fringe my coat my legs were slapped and tugged, my flesh made tense as an exam. at the top of the hill near my house, i started to run, trying to outpace the cold cold punching air. i flew downhill, legs spun wild, like the cars that highspeed down the road late at night, like the bike i could see freewheeling just in front of me. running fast- too fast- crossing roads- not slowing- hoping for no cars- i imagined falling, saw my body slow arc through the air, saw the concrete of the pavement hit my cheek.

suddenly i am in cornwall, a summertime years back, racing down a hill on my bike, going fast, too fast, no brakes fast, terrified and overjoyed at the race, the pace of it, the out of control speeding down into the valley. i fall, of course, when the smoothconcrete of the road changes to gravel, a slipsliding surface, uncertain beneath the wheels. i fall to the left, graze my knee, thigh and arm, stop breathing for the shock of stone on skin. my whole body shakes as i walk back to our holiday cabin.

the wind seems less cruel at high speeds. i reached the bottom of the hill, slowed to a walk, breathless, intact. i looked up and found orion, the only constellation i know. walking to my door, i could smell the blossom on the trees that line my street.