A blustery April’s morning ride to work

The April wind is roaring loud,
A restless, blustery, gray-sky shroud.
It isn’t winter’s biting tooth,
But lacks the warmth of springtime’s youth.
The woods are silver, stark, and lean,
With just the faintest pulse of green.

The SuperDuty stays at home,
The bus can keep grinding it’s way downtown.
I’d rather feel the gears engage
And turn the season’s messy page.
To pedal through the morning hush,
And brave the wind’s unruly rush.

Down where the Normans Kill carves deep,
The gorge begins to wake from sleep.
Though hills are muted, washed in gray,
The air feels fresh and leads the way.
A bit of grit, a bit of chill—
But man, it’s good to be riding still.