By Wild Bill (The Alaskan Biker Poet)

The ground is cold and hard
There’s a rock beneath my back
Larger than a boulder,
As I roll out of the sack.
I lay there for a moment
Watching shadows on the wall
Of my tent this frosty morning
Of the last ride of the fall.
I kick start my lungs
With a cigarette in the tent
Run fingers through my hair
To find it’s badly bent.
Camp robbers scatter
From the ground as I emerge
Nearly falling on my face
I exit with a surge.
I stagger ’round the fire pit
Kicking with my soles
Searching for some evidence
Of life within’ the coals.
But alas the fires’ cold and dead
Like the empties ’round my feet.
So I stagger over to a log
Crouch down and take a seat.
Four hundred miles remain
To my journeys of the season.
Unfairly winter robs me
Without rhyme, without reason.
This is my last awakening
On the road for the year
So I pick up all the empties
And pack up all my gear.
Wipe the dew off my saddle
My tank and the chrome
Warm her up one last time
And set a course for home.
This morning strikes me similar
As many of the rest,
But through the icy winter
I’ll remember it as the best.