As the plummeting temperatures take with them any chance of me riding my bike these days, I am reminded of an, er, poem if you will, that I penned while on my last ride. The wind + dried corn stalks combined to make an eerily familiar sound…Riding through the back country roads at dusk. The Midwest sunlight taking its time reaching for the ground. Pedals whisking me along, my breath strong in my ears. Faster and faster, I crest a hill. My ears are overtaken then by the sound of the ocean. Waves softly lapping at a forgiving shore. Memories of salt-water infused breezes and languorous summer afternoons flow through me as I start down the hill and I’m transported, briefly, to the world that I’ve vacated only recently. The growing sound of waves overlaps into an urgent roar, bringing me back to that open country road. I look left and right in wonder. It’s then that I realize the wind is playing in the dried, dun-yellow corn stalks. Running through their open rank and file with fingers out stretched. They play the husks like rough strings of a harp. It sounds like the ocean. My reality, new and old, mesh together and fall in line. Down that back country road.