Bike Blues

The wind howled as it swirled around in circles. Bitter and harsh it whipped up the snow and tossed it into the air. The small creature scampered across the yard and scurried up the tall birch tree. He ruffled his bushy tail and began grooming himself, removing all traces of the winter flurry outside. As his heart rate slowed he spit out his precious cargo into his favorite hiding spot. Cautiously he peeked out of his home in the tree. The wind still furiously tore apart anything in its path. The sound of the creaking picket fence was muffled by the roaring lion. There against the fence was a strange object. It stuck out like a sore thumb; a blue bike against a white blanket of snow, or at least what was left of the paint was blue. The malevolent rust ate away at the simple machine like a lurid disease creeping along its frame. It just stood there dejectedly leaning against the wooden barrier. The squirrel felt sorry for the bike. The hateful little boy who left it out in the callous Minnesota blizzards of winter was now huddled comfortably around a warm fire. The fuzzy little animal was helpless to help the bike. He so longed to bring it in to his cozy home in the tree, but this feat was out of the question. The squirrel dolefully turned away.