A dusting for the ride in

A dusting falls on heavy, sodden snow,
Yet onward through the slush I mean to go.
The trail is wet, a dark and sodden track,
But nothing holds this spinning spirit back.

Along the trail, the greening grass creeps through,
Waking up to drink the frozen dew.
The Normans Kill is rising with a roar,
As winter runoff thunders past the shore.

The air is sharp, a bite against the skin,
Yet lacks the iron bite where frost crept in.
I’d rather burn the fat than fossil fuel,
And leave the SuperDuty, parked and cool.

No gas to buy, no bus fare in the tray,
Just wind and grit to find a better way.
Though blustery clouds may grey the ride back home,
I’m richer for the miles I reclaimed alone.