The vintage bike lay on the sliver birch tree in the forest.

The Handle bars arch like a mammoths tusks.

The wheels are a mossy clock waiting to rest.

Spokes,

as thin as a clock hand,

tick,

in fear.

Cogs click in a rhythmical, repeating song.

Pedals sway,

rocking slowly.

The sadle waits impatiently to be rode again.

The vintage bike lay on the sliver birch tree in the forest.