The town is three streets. The prettiest faces the Mississippi. The sun sets, the chill arrives, and I enter a pub.
I make friends. Chose the pub carefully, got the right feel. I’m not through the door and people start the introductions. I discard my book and chat.
I want a beer, conversation, and in a lucky world, somewhere to stay. Adventurer’s gamble, I suppose. Adventurers don’t always win.
Three hours finds me outside and cheerful. The pub closes; groups swagger home. I leave my bike and walk off the energy, the brew.
Time to sleep, Drew.
The river shore is cold and safe. Pebble beach, breeze, no mosquitoes. I lean the bike on a tree and I sit beneath. Wrap my blanket, cross my legs. Sleep.
I wake once an hour to a train horn. It gets colder in the wee hours. I adjust.
5:30 and the sun hits the river. Mist covers it like a serpent. He lifts his head, rises with the dawn. A dragon on the wing, a slow silver river, and me.
The night was cold, uncomfortable. I won’t complain. Why complain about what you love best?