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Bicycling on The Loop
With my nine year-old
Her hair flying
The smell of creosote
After a desert rain.
The fragrance unlike
Any other on earth
Wafting into our nostrils
And deeper into our souls.
On our way west
Toward the Santa Cruz
A planned stop for water
To listen for the train
And to delight as it comes
Screaming by.
Contrasts. Beauty.
The giant saguaro
saluting our return.
—Patrick Cunningham
