That winds all through Cheyenne, though it's not whole
As yet; it's discontinuous. Complete,
It will let bikers and the sorts who stroll
To travel all around, no care for cars
Except at a few crossings. Ere that day
More cement must be poured, must set for hours
And opportunities galore will lay
In wait for leaving traces, casts and tracks
Such as I saw out there this afternoon.
Bike tire trails, paw prints, outlines and cracks
All testify to what landed too soon
In that congealing muck before it cured.
They'll know of us in future; that's assured.
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