There’s a blue bicycle stuck in the limbs of my favourite tree. You can lean your head back and shade your eyes if it’s a sunny day, and gaze up at the top of that gigantic maple, and there the bicycle will be. Rusting in spots; shining in others. On windy days, when the slender branches near the top of the maple toss and turn, one wheel of the bicycle spins. It looks lazy, that wheel, as if it knows that its purpose in life used to be to get places and go somewhere, but now all it has is air…
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