I met my lover on the road this morning, a magificent full moon in the bed of her royal sky, dropping away into the west. She bathed the world of concrete and neon, and that of the lonely cyclist, with her gentle albedo. I could see why the ancients worshiped her and why writers hack descriptions of her beauty. Glorious!

While marveling at her glory, I came across an FUV squatting troll-like in my moon-washed bike lane. Massive, dark, sinister. Someone didn’t feel like manhandling their man-machine into their driveway last night and abandoned their siege engine in the road, in my lane. But the most ridiculous thing in this encounter was the peace sign pasted on its rear porticus, a little throw-back symbol towards a time when the world looked towards something like sanity.

FUVs are aggressive. One needs only to look into their warlike headlights with their subliminal anger-shape eyes to see this, a trick designers lifted off P-40s and triremes. A peace sign on this traffic-harvester is pretty much a handshake with an iron gauntlet.

But I’d seen this roadblock, cocked a look over my shoulder, took the lane and was around him.

Back to my moon. My glorious moon!