“Woah! You should use a bell, mate!”

Aside from greeting my cats, these are often the first words of the day that I speak aloud. I'm on the bike path early in the morning, grateful for the beautiful sights and smells that accompany summertime fitness. The sun starts to rise but the wind hasn't caught up yet, and critters of the river valley scuttle and flit about. Inevitably, I'll hit a section of the path that's been compromised by obtrusive tree roots. Pedalling fast and dodging the incidental speed bumps, my trajectory temporarily becomes unpredictable. Just then, an unannounced spandex-clad speed-demon overtakes me on a bike that's worth more than my house.

I've been trying to spend as much time on the bike paths and riversides as possible, finding that it's good for my sanity. There's a particular spot that I make a habit of visiting on my early morning ride. I've spotted a mink there a few times in the last year and there's always the hope that if I'm discreet enough, it’ll scuttle by and improve my day.

The possible existence of a radical school of ancient Chinese poetry was recently brought to my attention. The idea is that even when poetry is reduced to imagistic references, and in ancient China this would typically be in regards to nature, applying words or symbols causes what David Hinton calls a “breach between consciousness and landscape". So a revisionist style emerged in an attempt to transcend this metaphysical disconnect.