Humble Pie

Cranking it,
with the wind at my back,
I reimagine
myself sixty years younger,
a boy again
intent on being the fastest
on two wheels.

In this race
against no one but myself,
with the trail
mine alone and that next hill
my arbitrary
finish line — already conjured,
a victory trophy.

But humble pie
is served on the next curve
as stepping from
brush, a fawn materializes,
playful and
nonchalant; with a bound,
it’s no contest.