Biking with Cezanne

He moves quickly, conscious

only of the pedals’ noise,

the clicking of the gears,

all other noise folded

into a silence,

and he sees the blurs of trees

smudged like Cezanne, and

a bridge like Monet’s, and

color like Renoir’s, and

this race has become

a painting, color

overwhelming lines, color

controlling motion and speed and

he becomes one

with the color,

he swirls

into a blending

of muscle and machine

and speed,

the air alive around him,

the air on fire,

a fire of brilliant blue

and green and enough

of yellow for contrast

and definition and focus, and

as he crosses the line

the watches click his time.

He lays down the brush.

Photograph by Lubos Houska via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.