Two Wheel Tuesday: Crescent

In a rush, silent wings startled the leaves through whose branches they maneuvered. Those sharp tips clawed and scratched at feathers but could not hinder the flight. The night cracked an eye open, just one, just a slit, enough to see what was going on. 

Everyone raves when night's eye is fully open, rising from the horizon, thousands of horizons, millions maybe. On those nights every speck and crater is visible from those millions of horizons. It is spectacular, but there is no mystery in it. However, that last crescent before or, conversely, that first crescent after the new, there is mystery in that, in what is unseen, unrevealed by those most narrow of slivers.

No one needs to tell you there is adventure to riding at night, whether the night cracks its eye wide or narrow; you already know. But I am telling you anyway.