So there was a gentle decline,
and the sky that morning
was crystalline,
but it was the way
she stood on her board,
like a Degas dancer,
or as if before
a flattering mirror.
She swept down the hill,
face tilted in the wind,
propelled by the willing world
past us walkers
who were hooked on the corner
waiting for the lights to change.
She made pedalling seem pedestrian.
When you move like that
all human ports
and all shores of work
matter for naught,
because you
are the moment.
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