In April

the unraveling blue above,
with a swift left-right sweep,
only vaguely registering
the crisscrossing plane lines,
a horn blasting in the small
of the left ear, and leading
a street symphony of clangs
and hums and swishes
thickened by the grit
of the gravelly crumbs
winter left in retreat,
at the corner glancing
into the cracked face
of the street behind,
something flying up and away
(what?)
and a choreography of reds,
yellows, and greens
extending towards
the hazy horizon,
the side mirror catching
another sight of the long
scarf tresses flying
in the slipstream
of this forward motion,
running parallel
with the orange
danger ribbons
flapping festively
where spring is
repaired, and somewhere
to the right, above
the shoes and wheels
and busyness,
a dog is barking
from an open balcony door.

the first bike ride of the year.