[Jim Ramsey]

newest edit responding to John R. once more is to condense these three lines into one new Line 11:
[a bouldered stream that drifted the clear,
but cenote-green water of the Hill Country
over tumbled gravel beneath wisps of cloud.]

Version 3 with a new title and seven additional lines attempting some frisson

Riding the High Range

The back road into Dripping Springs
served up a natural batch of breath
and sweat drafting with us in the slipstream
that trailed each cyclist who took the lead.
The brew, purified by solar rays, was
savory with asphalt, scrub cedar and live
oak, lime stone outcrops and cutaways,
soft shoulders of crushed shale, and,
under a vintage, slightly arching bridge
of mortared stones with mossy faces,
a Hill Country stream running cenote-green.
Ahead, the quads would ache climbing, grinding
then, vistas of descent open when gliding,
passing white-fenced fields of horses, where,
was told, outlaws and Comanches rode.
We made it into town by ten for brunch.
There was a little boy at a window table, staring.
He must have seen us wheeling in to park,
removing helmets, and tipping water bottles up
to splash faces and sharp-shoot squirts perfectly
to mouths—still staring, jaw slightly dropping,
at this color-wheel of cowboys in black shorts.

newest edit: title changed from "Sharing the Lead" to "The Ease of Descending" and then to "Coming Down Easy"
version 2

Coming Down Easy

The back road into Dripping Springs
served up a natural batch of breath
and sweat drafting with us in the slipstream
that trailed each cyclist who took the lead.
The brew, purified by solar rays, was
savory with asphalt, scrub cedar and live
oak, limestone outcrops and cutaways,
soft shoulders of crushed shale, and,
under a vintage, slightly arching bridge
of mortared stones with mossy faces,
a bouldered stream that drifted the clear,
but cenote-green water of the Hill Country
over tumbled gravel beneath wisps of cloud.
Ahead, the quads would ache climbing, grinding,
then, vistas of descent open when we were gliding,
passing white-fenced fields of horses, where,
tales get told, outlaws and Comanches rode.


version 1

Sharing the Lead

The back road into Dripping Springs
served up a natural batch of breath
and sweat drafting with us in the slipstream
that trailed each cyclist who took the lead.
The brew, purified by solar rays, was
savory with asphalt, scrub cedar and live
oak, lime stone outcrops and cutaways,
soft shoulders of crushed shale, and,
under a vintage, slightly arcing bridge
of mortared stones with mossy faces,
a bouldered stream that drifted the clear,
but cenote-green water of the Hill Country
over tumbled gravel beneath wisps of cloud.
Ahead, the quads would ache climbing, grinding
then, vistas of descent open when gliding,
passing white-fenced fields of horses, where,
was told, outlaws and comanches rode.