Walking at dusk Justin Hunt

At a streetlamp corner I spot them: a child’s bicycle tracks trapped in a sidewalk poured years ago— two tires crisscrossing, threading to a future long since passed.

I follow the tracks until they are lost to shadow—and I to an older dark, where I stumble upon my red Schwinn on its kickstand, tasseled and fat-tired, still my size as I grab its handlebars and sling myself up, then race along Clines’ yard, ears scouring, eyes blurring winter-cold. Past leafless elms laid out by settlers, through juts of limbs scraggly and black against a faint maroon of sky, I slice the night and fly above flat and endless fields— towards Venus and a scythe of moon.