My bicycle’s wheels spun smoothly beneath me,
gliding.
The midnight suburban sky sprawled out before me,
engulfing.
The curvature of the earth seemed to reveal itself,
but I knew that it was simply a trick
of the roads here that curved down from the middle.
I love this sky.
Every trip home I bike around these streets
looking up to the same clear, expansive dark blue swell
over me,
dotted with just enough stars to make one think.
The houses here are flat and seem to carry the humility
to steer clear of the presence of the above.
How starkly this contrasted against
the scene in New York City a couple days ago.
Those tall building cried for attention,
fighting each other not to mention the skies.
Projecting arrogantly upwards, they seemed like fingers
flipping off the natural ancient
at the same time they worship themselves,
attempting to flaunt the finite against the infinite.
I don’t let that thought distract me from my experience for long.
On, I ride. The houses whip past me. The wind starts to chill my ears.
We seem to associate the constant with the divine,
in religions and in pursuits of truth or beauty.
I speed down the well-paved asphalt,
The trees come closer into view as I approach a corner,
the light of the lamp post grows brighter as I make my way around,
and the sky stays over me,
the stars unmoving, unshifting, always equidistant,
constant.
