Bicycle Thieves

Across the hydro field butterflies, rags of yellow, white, orange, were tossed by the breeze from milkwood to milkwood. Dogs ran free, tearing through the long grass after unseen prey sometimes leaping into the air out of sheer joy. Birds, garter snakes, toads, and clouds of grasshoppers made their home in the grass. Sometimes a fox or skunk would wander out of Echo Valley and down the fields. At night families of raccoons waddled leisurely across the open spaces.
On hot summer afternoons cicadas would sing their electric songs as the wind danced up and down the field, the long grass like a ballroom gown swaying back and forth, swirling round and round. It was the nineteen fifties. The suburbs. Septic tanks. Cape Cod houses. Row on row. New schools. Bullies. Mad boys. Black and white television. Aerials. Dogs running free. Pond hockey. Cigarettes. Teenage crushes.
Bicycle Thieves. And death.