The air there swirls in a different manner.
and the morning bougainvilleas swell from the heaviness of their color,
magenta. Which is a hard color to wear well.
The clouds roll in
and out differently
and the bikes are parked at odd angles, shuffled together
the simplicity of their mechanics,
oblivious.
The freedom, and the breath that rolls down the mountains--
right in the middle of town,
they give,
they exhale,
and I am home.
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