That shadowless time of year where cold winds dost blow,
When weekday riding outside is nye,
Early night hides me inside, stationary and slow,
Ushered in by the Energy Act of '05.
The trail, its sultry sweet voice like a Siren's call
Whereon hunters fall upon like Autumn's cold rains,
As they have done, like I once did, early every Fall,
Descending from Taylor and Drayton Plains.
I could ride on roads or write a bitter sonnet instead,
Maybe ride dark trails woken up by lights,
Since a bad ride is better than a good ride shot dead,
And worse than dieing is infringing on rights.
Rights and sovereignty left scattered in the sand
Takes the shape of discarded Budweiser cans.