The trees gaze down on the two figures. One is perched on a blue bicycle. He clutches the handlebars like a prayer, a small wrinkle creasing his forehead. The larger figure crouches beside him, whispering, hoping.
Their heads part, and the dance begins. She grips the seat and begins to run. His wheels spin, as she sprints, gripping his sweatshirt. "Don't let go! Don't let go!" he yelps. All is motion, as her shoes thwack the asphalt. Her heart pounds. His face melts into motion.
She lets go. He glides, an unwavering, elegant line. She runs behind him, raising her hands to the heavens. Don't let go, she whispers. Don't let go.
The oaks and willows observe his journey, whispering encouragement through age-old groans and whispers. He streaks down the road, all red hoodie and propelled bravado. When ready, he glides to a stop.
She gasps, finds her footing. The world, once more, has shifted. "Mom," he says, "You've got yourself a bike rider!"
And the trees of the field clap their hands.