Two Wheel Tuesday: A Hell-Bound Cross

It was in the tree now, that whitish thing perched on a branch. Watching. Screeching. My impression was that it didn't like being interrupted in whatever it was doing beside the trail; I don't know which of us was more surprised as I bounced down the trail from the top of the hill. Was it some banshee or an overly raspy owl? The sound it made was a sort of hell-bound cross between a burro with an upset stomach and an asthmatic dachshund, and easily the most foul bray I think I have heard in a good long while.

Minutes before, I had penetrated a dimensional warp, the periphery of my vision blurring to black beyond that short, narrow beam illuminating a path through time before me. I stopped for a moment in the glow of a nearly full moon, flares of light double and triple its diameter, stretching out into the cosmic dust, scattering, raining down; white shells and fragments of white shells littering hilltop ground. Ancient deposit mixing with more recent life, detritus of last season's growth. The hills and hollows are quiet now, this time of year; people driven out by darkness, in search of lighter places. A different world, but very much a part of this dimension.