Yesterday afternoon son the elder and I went for a bike ride. I lifted my face to the warming sun. To my right, an orange trumpet vine climbed a long-needled pine tree, the many tiny roots of each sucking “foot” fingering its way deep into rough bark.
The tires sing against the road. Up ahead, son the elder puts both of his feet on the handbars and swoops down into a grass-lined ditch and out again.