we ride on, I after you.
the sun streams through;
I see it swim softly through the Spanish moss hanging off the old live oaks, like the wispy tendrils of an old, old man's beard. maybe your grandfather, or your great grandfather, or your great, great grandfather. who knows how old.
this place is teaming with silent whispers of magic.
secrets of ancient tales, legends, and histories.
a religion.
you have no idea as you blissfully bike on.
you are here for the ride.
so here we are. here we go.
and we enjoyed it.
