Middle aged, middle classed, there wasn’t much that needed doing.

The morning was cloudy, but the man thought he would still get his
ride in before the rain came. He got on the bicycle and climbed the
steep hill, then rode past the convenience store, the gas station, a
man walking a dog.

Three miles from home, just as he started to flow, the rain began,
so he turned in at the little brick church. He sat down on the
concrete steps beneath the overhang of the entrance. Passing
cars made hissing sound waves on the wet road. He liked the
breeze on his wet legs and the damp earthen odor.

Then the miracle happened. The voice in his head went quiet.
He felt the surrounding beauty; trees, flowers, birds, squirrels,
even a crack of thunder. Half an hour passed this way. He
wanted it to stay like this.

But soon the rain let up and the voice in his head returned,
so the man pedaled home.

06/24/2008

Author's Note: Plain language prose poem on glimpsing presence.

Posted on 06/25/2008
Copyright © 2026 David Hill