bicycle

there's a twelve-year-old riding so alone in a horizon-vast field
his bicycle wheels crushing the grass underneath
and releasing the scent of dry winter dusty roads
his red cap makes hardly a bright splash against the
monotone background of dead grass and bare
spindly trees against a skeleton cloud sky;
there's no one with him
but i can almost hear the carefree sharpness
of children's yellow-bright laughter.

i'm watching him through our silver automobile's rolled-up window
and wondering why.