The stone found me in Greece.
Slipped in a pocket; ported over borders and borders and oceans and lands
Four smooth grooves
(Or two depending on who’s counting)
Perfect for the shape of my stubby thumb
Cupped neatly in the valley of my palms
Taking on the wear and tear that would rip me apart
The hill tips over a points it’s way down through a jungle of lights and cars and shadowed pedestrians. On the days when it’s perfect, after the rush of the hours at work after the rush of the cars driving home, when the rush is the blur of the lights that stay green.
Down the slope and sweep juuust to the left and the earth tips down again and pulls you into her heart.
You could ride the momentum down and up again but this way, this way creates a storm in your ears and everything falls away as everything pulls to the present and it is you and the road and the risk and the blood in your veins and the beat of your heart.
The earth tips up again.
You whisper thanks to your guardian angel as you pump her pedals over the crest of the hill and past the tent city with flags crying for Argentina and through the light at the top as it turns to yellow.