On my wipeout

from the perspective of the dirt jump

I am a big pile of dirt.

They put me here near the bank of a brook.

The brook lies four feet below me.

They started with big rocks.

Then small rocks.

Then dirt.

I’ve been fashioned and shaped.

The first one who crossed me with wheels glided effortlessly into the air and landed on the other side.

Many do this on a regular basis.

Some say that I’m intimidating.

I’m mellow, smooth with hardly a lip to me at all.

My cousin on the other side is kind and welcoming to wheels of all sizes

Since I arrived, not many spend much time with me.

The other night however?

That was different.

The first ever showed up.

I could tell from the sound of his wheels.

Again, he launched from me and sailed across the brook effortlessly.

My cousin welcomed him gladly.

The next one however?

He’s seemed bold.

He seemed confident.

He didn’t look at my cousin.

His eyes fell to the gaping water filled hole below.

He found me intimidating.

I can tell.

Those ones?

Who are intimidated by me stick around longer.

I’m a pile of dirt.

I’m not intimidating.

Regardless of this, he missed the bridge.

He focused on the hole.

Instinctively he arrested his iron horse.

The horse threw him over its head.

He flew off me.

They always do.

This one?

He forgot the bike.

He met my friend the brook.

There was a splash.

There was swearing.

Ultimately there was laughter.

Why did one soar?

Why did this one not?

This question plagues me.

Some soar. Others fall.

The first let go.

The other?

Went slow.

Perhaps he will return.

The gap remains.

And my cousin will welcome him any time.