Under a Curlew’s wing

The road swept and swooped, swooped and swept. Buttercup fields dancing to the horizon. 

A familiar unfamiliar song renaged on the silence as an errant cloud obscured Pen-Y-Ghent; the Curlew. 

Familiar enough for recognition, unfamiliar through range. At home, no curlew seranades the ‘B’ roads.

A rare treat.

I’m lost, but I can give you a precise location, as sure and fast as any GPS. I’m absent, yet present with every fibre, nerve, synapse and atom.

This cycling moment, so perfect and real stretches into infinity; the sounds, the duck egg sky,  the rolling countryside that lurches like a stormy green sea. Just me, the Curlews and the cloud, that cloud that obscures my favourite hill.

What is that makes a moment perfect? Chance? Accident?  A precise assembly of components and a receptive mind? All of it and none of it? 

Perhaps I was thinking too much. The moment passes, a car chugs by. But fleetingly, on these wheels and these roads, everything was just….so.

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