Two Wheel Tuesday: Bullfrog Croak
A tisket, a tasket, an old wooden casket.
It is a fine place to keep a casket - the back of a pickup truck. Weathered wooden slats with warped gaps, darkness seeping from between them, black as the night sky. One last drive for Bobby McGee before the long goodnight.
Two Wheel Tuesday last week was interesting. Least of all, though, because it happened on Wednesday rather than its namesake day, at least it did for me; a make up day for what I missed twenty-four hours earlier. The make-shift hearst, spotted while driving home, the dead silence in the Park, the image of a watery grave. The crossing, normally passable, now a deep pool, stagnant and dark, black water hiding a secret, pulling a nearby tree down, into the depths, a smell of decay rising from along the muddy banks, drifting from deeper in the jungle. A bullfrog croak, a warning? Or a plea.
Alright then, lets see what tonight holds in store. Happy riding.
It is a fine place to keep a casket - the back of a pickup truck. Weathered wooden slats with warped gaps, darkness seeping from between them, black as the night sky. One last drive for Bobby McGee before the long goodnight.
Two Wheel Tuesday last week was interesting. Least of all, though, because it happened on Wednesday rather than its namesake day, at least it did for me; a make up day for what I missed twenty-four hours earlier. The make-shift hearst, spotted while driving home, the dead silence in the Park, the image of a watery grave. The crossing, normally passable, now a deep pool, stagnant and dark, black water hiding a secret, pulling a nearby tree down, into the depths, a smell of decay rising from along the muddy banks, drifting from deeper in the jungle. A bullfrog croak, a warning? Or a plea.
Alright then, lets see what tonight holds in store. Happy riding.
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