Alive

Layers were thicker as proof of life emanated from between my lips on a nearly November morning. The sun, as it usually does this time of year, was deceiving us. Six wheels turned to two at the 15 mile mark, and so my solo Saturday sojourn had begun.
Spaces widened as the black ribbon shrunk before the spinning wheel, with carbon dutifully falling in line. Fresh, real air fueling lungs, muscles willing, heart accepting the burden, eyes taking in the immediate frontal onslaught, and peripherally the expanse that was to be shortly left behind. The senses were assimilating the cold on bare skin, the intrusion of earth and its open wounds left by farmers blades. I was no longer a part, but had become one with. 78/18.7