The Migration Of Bicycles

By Nancy Willard

I have seen them flash among cars or lean

so low into the curved wrist of the road

to brake would kill them, yet a whole pack

will stand for hours in the rain

yoked to each other, chained to the rack

till the shops close. I have seen

them balanced on one foot like a clam,

the front wheel turned, at ease. It waits

like a severed centaur, for lover or thief

to give it a running push, shift gears, and ride

off with the Great Bear and the full moon

hooping the earth, winding the spring tide.

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