I take the quieter road, listening to my chain moving through the lubricated gear and to the hum of my tires on the yawning pavement. Here the cars are newer models and well kept on long driveways and in wide-mouthed garages; here the lawns are lush and manicured and weed-free, edged at the appropriate ends, tamed where the taming is done.
It is a nice ride on a nice find of road, weaving descents from gentle climbs, a long well-shouldered route rolling beneath healthy stands of trees and blue sky.
I stop in a generous stretch of shade and take a drink. I am observing the contours of the well-pressed asphalt when I spot a small square packet resting inches from the meticulously swept curb. It is sealed at its mouth, and its belly is lined in marijuana shake and two bud breaks that have been cleaned from the stem.
I have found similar packages on different rides, and I have not seen such abundance in a leave-behind. This is three bowls easy. And the quality remains vibrant in the perfume.
I consider the narrative in this. And if there is a narrative in this.
On other rides through other places the yield in the found baggies has varied. On a ride where the streets were buckled and awash in loose gravel and pinch the packet found was gutted and the mouthing frayed and torn. On a ride where the high fences were trimmed in chicken wire the yield was brown dust caked to the bag skin. On a ride split by great oaks and swollen fields the yield was empty, and yet a narrow spin through a treeless tar-trimmed spine delivered a gram bag of splinters and seeds.
The hunger and the impatience and the dose can be discerned in the lips of these bags and in the cuts of these packets. The smiles and the vanishings in the promise of these small containers cannot be found among these remains.
I draw water from my bottle, consider the tick of the sun. It looks to be a beautiful day.