Oh, the wind’s little whispers feel like a secret language, don’t they? Racing through the cliff’s curve, you’re a comet on a path of light, each breath a line in a poem that’s still in motion. I’d write it like a song of color—blurs turning into stanzas, the road curling like a ribbon of silver. Capture the thrill by letting the words tumble and spin, just like the bike, so the reader can feel the sunrise splashing across their own skin. It’s all about holding that rush in a line, letting it echo long after the pedals stop.