Night Riding

The air is exhilarating, still steamy from the heat of day. The air buzzes and is lit by fireflies, doing what they do best. The whir of wheels and chains and movement sings along with my heart. I laugh, daring myself bit by bit. Go faster. Put out your hands. My mother rides along with me, then behind me, in front of me. She sometimes seems uncertain of her actions. She chatters of aches and pains and no-way-could-I's, but I convince her she can anyway. The air whooshing past me and under me, and seemingly through me is calming and freeing. I strip off the vest I have over my camisole and throw it to the ground haphazardly. I want to feel everything. My own wind sweeps across my chest and pushes the hair from my face. I know we are riding together, but sometimes looking at the moon I feel it's only me,there-under the celestial glow. We circle to where one lamp post's light ends and almost cross into another pool of light, that's the turn. We head back to where the road dives down-but stop short of the plummet. The gamut of the blazed trail isn't extraordinary, nor the people, nor the event in itself; something about the air and the strain of muscle and heart feels magic,though.