THE HOG BRIGADE

by John Grey

I can tell it’s summer –
not by the calendar.
not by the sun frying my neck,
but by the motorcycles flocking around me…
a genuine chrome stampede.

They rise like migratory birds
from out of their winter sheds,
slipstreaming past my windows,
each one tuned to the same invisible rhythm –
not chasing, not racing,
just moving with a purpose
only they can know.

They arc around me, perfect spacing,
perfect speed, like they rehearsed this
in some dream I wasn’t
good enough to be part of.

And then - they’re gone.
Over the crest, under the sky.

Save me a sliver of horizon, won’t you?