Wet rubber screeches;

these skinny bike wheels

grumble over gravel patches.

Brussels smells ethereal this

time of year. A beige-clad

Brit leads, speeds through fat

ruts. I follow his bowler hat,

marvel at the functionality of

his arthritic mechanisms,

knees and elbows pivot and

groove more quickly than my

own. Green drips over my

cheeks from the trees. Soft

rain, he calls it. Soft. The

softness of earth, of sky,

falling on me in summer.