we were riding the bikes along the golden wheat field bright red harvesters were gathering the grain my hair waved in the wind the wheels were spinning faster and faster
we raced the bikes faster and faster
in a few seconds I flew down the slope into the ditch and my iron horse slid limply on the road leaving a spark and fragments of reflectors I lay in the sunflowers, heard the noise of harvesters a trickle of blood was running on my cheek a flock of birds was fling in the sky and I was happy I was a child.