Blue river and fat geese

I got into Daddy’s car and drove on battery power. The sun had set but it was mostly smooth sailing; the road signs were clear enough. Even in my blind rage, instinct and well-honed driving skills got me through the local streets without a hitch.

Somewhere in gritty North Jersey, I took a jughandle left and a ramp onto I-95. About five miles down this baby, so familiar to me, the engine started sputtering. I didn’t wanna stall there of all places so I took an exit, parked not too far from Milltown, and got on my fold-out scooter.

Cars minded me for the most part but I couldn’t handle giant intersections, not with the lights changing as if they were a show, greens turning without warning to reds, turning to illogical arrows. I waited for my green arrow, every muscle in my body tensed, my right foot ready to kick off as hard I could. When it finally came, it didn’t stay long enough. Cars from two directions, four lanes, crisscrossed around my slow-moving body, headlights blinding me, as I dodged my way through the overlap of 16 lanes and tumbled headfirst into some dark corner.

In the black, I glimpsed “Majors” and “The Brunswicks” on a road sign before being sucked into the hole, hurtling down the narrow hill path. Orange lamp lights appeared one by one, passing me on my left—blob, blur, bubble—curving around the little mountain. As I made it around the many bends, night rose to reveal a blue morning, and I landed on a tiny island.

Beyond the wire fence, evergreen woods lined the river and a flock of geese—a hundred fat geese—filled the now-bright sky, flapping their wings hard against the wind. The grass before my feet was a young and tender yellow green and next to me, abandoned but healthy lay a bicycle with a clean, white helmet attached. And its light on.

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