This is only the second time I have biked through the woods at night. 

The nightwoods never disappoint me. There's a primal, visceral nature to them. There is a guttural roar that is deafeningly silent. It fills my ears and trickles down my spine, plucking each vertebra like taut strings. 

A sapling, still full of last years leaves and illumined by my headlamp, leapt into my peripherals, and a string broke. 

It is spring. I know it is by the air. Waves of cool wind, damp with mud and must from the lakes, waft up from the hollows. It is the waters' breath, awakening. 

I see a dirt path turn into the woods, curving through the trunks into the blackness toward the lake. My breath pauses for just a moment, tugged toward the track. There's something ancient that wants to see the waters fluttering awake. There's something reptilian that wants to see the lake beginning to toss and turn in its bed. But I think better. I am a being of the sun, of the light, this darkness is not for me. 

So I press on, following a little pinprick of light in the inky ether.