Adolphus and Slungman discover that hills have two sides

Nothing has been left barren. Spring is in full swing. The days have been warm and after the sun has set the air becomes chilly, swaying silhouettes of trees to and fro on winding country roads. A storm left branches scattered on the road and the twigs scrape against my hands as Conrad and I go for a late night bike ride to stretch our limbs, expand our lungs, and escape the cabs of cars or the sterility of office buildings. A scent of honeysuckle on the wind and the lowing of cattle in the fields accompany the whirring of tires as we drift over the asphalt. I feel released from some imagined weight as we glide down hills, the sweat from pedalling hard to escape yard dogs drying as quickly as it came. The chain clinks slightly as I push the pedals back, positioning them in anticipation of the next upward slope. Everything is more beautiful when you can be a part of the scenery that you're passing through. Twenty-three miles of open sky and wind swept fields on either side; it's a painting that you soak in and appreciate, a panorama in which you are not the primary subject. To feel small like a speck of color on a canvas is to feel a sort of freedom. Stress from the week's work melts away at every mile marker. The strain of calves and thighs dissipates as we lean against a fence pole in want of water and a cigarette. A blanket of star speckled blue stretches further than imagination reaches. There was only the last stretch of road on the return home and that unfettered liveliness rising in my chest. It wasn't a song but the first movement of a symphony.