Some people like to drive their motorcycles up Chummundi Hill.

I just like to ride, behind someone,

With my arms tight around their waist,

Closing my eyes, and opening them

Only occasionally along the way.

The buzz of the cycle starts at my seat

And radiates, down my legs, out my arms,

Up through the top of my head,

And when I peek out, I see spots of colorful lights

Reflecting off the plexiglass wind shield.

Even they buzz.

I close my eyes again and breathe,

The odor of faint rain in the distance,

The fragrance of your hair,

A hint of gasoline , and something rocky,

And of something green with life.

It’s you, isn’t it?

It’s me?

It’s the ascent we take right now,

Up Chummundi Hill.

-jenn