Breathing
I lie flat upon my back,
having just flung myself to the ground following the full effort of a bicycle ride up a long hill,
breathing deep and hard,
swallowing gulps of restoring air.
I feel my rib-cage lift against the fabric of my shirt as each breath enters my lungs,
my muscles and cartilage stretch to accommodate the air,
then rapidly compress,
expelling a rush of sound.
I attend to the bed of grass in which I lie,
its earthy smell of hay,
its tiny fruiting heads gently scraping against the skin of my forearms,
its stalks waving in the wind and against one another in soft whispers.
I feel the simple pleasure of being alive,
as a gentle breeze flows across my chest,
and the spring Sun shines down and warms my skin.
Around me all else in this glorious moment unnoticed,
ignored.
Just.
Breathing.
From a memory of riding from Rodalben to the Husterhöh Kaserne in Pirmasens, Germany, 1975 up Pirmasenser Strasse. Ted Withycombe and I, after first riding our bicycles from Pirmasens to Kaiserslautern, then playing soccer with some soldiers at Vogelweh Kaserne, rode back to Pirmasens via Rodalben, and then up the hill to the Kaserne. What a day!
Many street names in Germany follow a practical pattern. I learned the pattern by asking a local in the town of Rodalben for directions back to Pirmasens, a neighboring town. He told me to take Pirmasenser Strasse, of course. When I arrived in back in Pirmasens, I found that the name of that same street was Rodalber Strasse, because in the other direction it took one to Rodalben.