My short prose poem: Transitions

Transitions 

The freshly laid plywood soaks in the morning sun. I walk to the garage for more nails and a tape measure. I leave footprints in the freshly peeled plywood. The days don’t get any better than this...I can drop in on my ramp, feeling the transitions I patiently cut, and do an axle stall on steel coping, hearing the “tink” sound of my trucks, metal on metal, feeling my weight shift as I slide the metals together a little, confidently dropping back in, ready before I even leave, for the endless transitions.