makes way to damp toes
and over eager bikers.
in spandex,
they fly past the speed limit
30km/hr and no winter service,
getting stuck in the slaw.           (do they make snow tires for bikes?)

A biker speeds past us
I yell “Tour de France!”

My mom laughs and asks me,
“why does the snow
only stay in certain places?”     (I don’t know.)

I try to breath in the smell
of new pine,
off of the bridge they built last summer.

but it’s gone                                   (only to be replicated in the lumber yard)

As we get closer to the parking lot,
sirens serenade us
on upper Dawes Road.

Originally published in White Wall Review 40 (2016)