Two Wheel Tuesday: Fuzzy Pate
Hillsides, even high up their mustard-fuzzed pates hold the water dropped from the last storm, three days past. It seeps from their engorged forms, running in rivulets like mascara down cheeks, dark and cold, across the road, any road, all roads. Tracks run through them with little thought or hesitation though, like traffic lanes across Montclair intersections, alignment is not always straight across. Blame it on the mud. In low spots it pools, tracks cut in close against the uphill verge seeking the least muddy way around. It does not work; there is no escape
Wheels turn and rise above the lakeshore as a squadron of low-flying geese skim the surface of the water, their path invisible against the inky stain. Only their metronomic honking gives away their pattern from west to east.
Lights ahead on the trail up Phatt Hill, bobbing with the swing of the arms grasping them. But for a moment of awkward balance we pass, wobbly on the knife edge of erosion, a couloir in the imagination create…
Wheels turn and rise above the lakeshore as a squadron of low-flying geese skim the surface of the water, their path invisible against the inky stain. Only their metronomic honking gives away their pattern from west to east.
Lights ahead on the trail up Phatt Hill, bobbing with the swing of the arms grasping them. But for a moment of awkward balance we pass, wobbly on the knife edge of erosion, a couloir in the imagination create…
