In Charlemont, with my trusty ol’ cargo bike. Her name is Gert. I love her metal soul. She whispers softly to me at night when I roam the dreamscape, beckoning me to wander forth, with her to woodsy locales, where the pine is redolent and the waters remain pristine. To meander through dewy meadows dappled with daisies. To ride along ancient majestic riverbanks, where mighty streams once roared. To remind me that life is best savored in slowness. We slow riders like using our wheeled adventures to harvest a riotous upswell of words, motifs, and other imaginative gifts that will surely arise when we are out there unencumbered by the imprisonment of the oppressor that we kindred folks have recognized to be a killer of souls. That is, namely…the automobile. She is one sturdy gal. Sturdy Gert. I hope everyone has a dear friend they can always count on like Gert. Even if that friend is not even human. We know that all things on heaven and earth and all other places in between possess a divine spark. By seeing this within her and bestowing her with a name, I have imbued her with with a rudimentary psyche of sorts. I hope that she doesn’t get an ego next. She gazes wistfully at the front door, wondering why she cannot wheel under the star-pricked skies anymore.She’s itchin’ to escape her pen, which happens to also double as my dining room. She’s pinin’ for the pines. It’s been a while. She misses our trips.