Blindsided

I peddled as fast as an eight-year old could
up a paved foothill.

A mini-mountain tunneled by forest.
The sun poked through like interrupted graffiti.

The trees huddled around me, the quarterback.
At night, the moon couldn’t even tackle my moves.

I felt I was running on the bike’s peddles. My shoes,
the ones that summer beat-up, had never moved so swift.

500 or so yards from home, a loose dog rushed from the
oaks and pines. The long-haired mute bit my right knee,

forced my left knee into the handle bars. I flipped over the
front of the bike, broke out my new adult top front teeth.

I lay on the road, stunned, leaking tears and blood.
The dog licked my face, high-fived the moon, and ran away wild.