The Cycle


We rode our bikes around the east side when the sun finally showed.  A sweet scent of magnolia blooms and roses and wet ground - all the moisture, summoned upward by the light, was carrying their essence.  Isn't it alarming how quickly things dry out in this heat?  And the clouds hang overhead in vast heaps, reminding you of what you've just been through.  A promise of the cycle.  


I'm always delighted when I see a church steeple.  Its simple beauty is cliché, but it works.  Its purpose - to direct attention to the sky, where the end doesn't exist, and the vastness goes on forever.  Where the point is, there is not an ending, as it might seem, but a continuum, and one thing just leads right into the next with hardly a gap in between. 


Perhaps all the beauty there is in the world exists simply in the pointed attention we joyfully dole out as we roll by.



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