Hopeless Hill


Enjoying the rush of free water over heavy rocks and the
loose breezes skimming the cloud-white foam.
Enjoying the smell of sap leaking from pores in the bark.

Along the river
Among the pines
A path wanders
A path wide and gently sloping from woods to water

Peddling is easy, breathing is too.
Wheels turn freely on faded black asphalt.

Suddenly, she cries out, “a hill, a hill…I hate hills!”
She hears him say, “you are just hopeless.”
He said, “toe clips, you need toe clips.”

About justbrinkley

poetry, flash fiction, prompts from a southern granny who should have been a writer.
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