Racing home

A dome of clearest blue
arches high above the land
wispy thin clouds blow
upon the growing wind

majestic mountains rise
peaks thrusting into the sky
darkening clouds there do grow
like dark castles in the sky

jagged rocks do barren lie
little soil there does cling
plants there cannot grow
where the rain can run free

the air does take a chill
as the wind is mighty grow
slicing through the summer clothes
too thin for that which comes

quickly races the bike
rushing to a beckoning home
the warmth of summer ride
cut short by coming storm

rain drops fat and full
wash down on mountain high
in gathering streamlet’s does grow
carrying precious soil away

pebbles now do shift
and stones do wiggle free
and then with gathering speed
fall downward upon the road