Caught between puddles and spray,
we squirt through anyway,
this being the last leg
of a circuit that started
with a light spritzing from wet road surfaces,
then a soft sprinkle from the sky,
till we were fully inaugurated
by a deep puddle spanning the trail.
So now, wet and sandy enough not to mind,
we coast to the end
and learn of the big sheets of rain we missed
but wouldn’t have minded either.
©Wendy Mulhern
August 23, 2022
Tailwind now — enjoy your ride —
you will have headwind
on the other side,
strong gusts will blast
and beat you down
all the way along the sound
But wait — no need to prearrange —
winds make no promises —
they change,
in their direction and their force,
with no attention to your course
See how today you are attended —
someone who the wind’s befriended,
playful with your hair,
playfully pushing you along,
freshening the air
and joining in your song
So bring that spirit home —
bring it on inside,
until the new engagement
of tomorrow’s ride.
©Wendy Mulhern
February 16, 2020
(from the biking philosophers’ notebook)
I wouldn’t want a tame bird,
she said. Wild birds
have so much life. They don’t
need our bread
Still, a wild bird
could take you somewhere,
in the trill of song,
the dip and dart of wing
You could have a relationship
with the badlands. They could
take your breath away
in the way they pull the light
like it was a silk scarf
or a skein of time
stretched and altered,
rendered otherworldly
You could find a related essence
in a baby’s smile, in the flash
of that moment where you shared
a recognition of each other’s souls,
your unplumbed depth,
or a mutual acceptance
that lets you both stay wild
in some elemental way,
elixir of living,
life breath of day.
©Wendy Mulhern
January 1, 2020
After the rolling rhythm of riding,
before my biped gait,
I will bask in the ponderous rhythm of ocean,
the unhurried fall,
the patient wait
I can rest in this,
the time it takes for the flood of the wave,
its choreographed return,
meeting the next wave,
ducking down in,
the pattern repeating
far down the beach
Swallows, too, and gulls,
add their rhythm,
here in the sun and the wind.
©Wendy Mulhern
May 9, 2019
Reach a certain speed
and the wind will feed you —
headwind, crosswind — no matter —
something in your breath exults,
catches up the movement of the moment,
just as these sparkles
in movement reflect
the stillness that powers us all.
©Wendy Mulhern
May 7, 2019
I take this ride
fueled by spring —
by blossom scent and balmy air
I hit against the memories
along the road — some time it’s been
since last I traveled here
I’m brought up short
by change — holes in the tree scape,
boxy buildings where they were —
Surprised again by how a gap
can suddenly unhook the tendrils of a place
and make it mine no more.
©Wendy Mulhern
April 2, 2019
(on biking before the storm)
Storm was predicted
and after the bright morning
it started to roll in
It is said that a wind passed through the mountains,
breaking the rocks in pieces
but the power was not in the wind
nor was the consequence
and there was a vast stillness
in the recognition
that none of that violence
could do anything
in the face of Truth
The snow was more benign than rain —
not wet enough to bother,
hardly visible, but finding its way,
sometimes, into my mouth
as I rode and considered
what it must mean
that the wind and the earthquake and the fire,
though they did break the mountains,
couldn’t do anything.
©Wendy Mulhern
January 19, 2019
January feast —
(many miles to go)
wind against my cheeks,
sand between my toes
Vision of the sea
shining in its thunder,
waves against the beach,
reaching, curling under
The ocean drew me there
with promise of delight
for eyes and ears and feet —
it didn’t disappoint
Now I ride home,
the headwind pushing back,
I feel the distance,
I feel my hunger,
but I am glad, too,
well fed by what I’ve seen —
I don’t know when next,
but I’ll be back again.
©Wendy Mulhern
January 6, 2019
I rest in the smug comfort
of intermittent torrential showers,
as I have already reaped
from the day
a magnificent ride
Cormorant swallowing a fish,
mourning dove perching on a wire,
houses of the towns pert and clean,
sun almost emerging from the clouds
The crash of wild high tide surf,
the thrill of strongly tugging water,
sun sheen emerging
at the height of drama,
sand and wind and soft sea foam
Flat high-topped clouds just whispered
of the chance of future thunder —
I drank in all the glory
to fill my morning hunger
Then I returned. Two hours later
rain descended,
making lakes of roads approaching five corners,
thunder rumbling high across the sky,
me content and gleeful to be dry.
©Wendy Mulhern
September 6, 2017
(which sing to me while I am resting)
The one to the many,
the many to one,
a way to find livelihood
under this sun
and still have integrity
when you are done —
it’s a puzzle, yes it’s a puzzle
The guy on the trail
with a guitar and flute
must have found a nook somewhere
along the slough,
I hear snatches of singing wafting down,
twangy, not clearly in tune
I’m charmed by the willow and wind,
fronds with their soft invitation,
decorous, gentle, still leaving distance,
me hoping they will swing closer
Some big fish
makes mysterious flops
in the water —
the ripples are dancing,
the shadows are, too —
as for me, it’s time to head home.
©Wendy Mulhern
August 24, 2017