I stand on the bike trail
beside my silver Avalon,
pull up my shorts, look
around at what lies in the
murky water 40 feet below
the bridge. I doubt that there
are trolls under there but just
in case, I leave a freshly painted
rock in a safe place. It's red with
green and white dots and some
seriously long blades of grass.
Someone painted a dove in the
background and a Jerusalem
cricket on the top.
The being who finds it
has several options:
toss it into the creek,
put it in her shorts
pocket and take it
home for a dark corner
of a desk, leave it alone
or give it away for
someone else to find.
I bent and crumbled
a power bar that was stashed
in my bike bag, hoping that it
will be food for the troll that lives
less than three feet from where I stand.
He's got water to drink, but it's dirty
like the heart of the man who posed
as my principal in 1987.
My bike exhales, relaxes, anticipating
the weight that I will most assuredly
apply to the seat, and then it gives me
a gentle push so I sail downhill all the way
to the hops bushes beside the pond where
the coyotes lie in the heat of the day.