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My spiritual life considers heaven
and the scads of ways we arrive.
Motorcycle riding in autumn leaves 
read and green trees or yellow red and gold
along Rt. 123 between Hancock and Washington
riding with friends not too fast
fast enough to lean
when a family of turkeys
mall flock preambles flight
running and stretching their necks.
One gets airborne too late too low and
slams into a rider and his bike
crashing into the road.
The next moment the rider is in a pleasant room
unfamiliar but sociable
a group of people chatting and hanging around
one of whom says, 
“Welcome stranger, how did you pass?”
And the response, not heroic but as honestly requires,
“I got knocked off.”