The gears are electric surprises. Sparking off at the thought of speed, they race to a faster pace. Spokes spin in a twisted tangent and I feel the growth of something metal inside. It’s cold and plastered, but it moves all the same. Forward pushing, I pull on. Past the green yards of farmers future browns and the gray smog of the city, crystalized. I’m careful not to be seen too much when I roll on shaky ground.
Photo by Lora Mosier