Dexter stands behind the lilac bushes, blending in with the colors of winter. The branches are bare and gray, some with tight honey colored buds at their tips, and some still holding golden brown clusters of dried seed pods. The ground is covered in dirt, mulch, and dead leaves in various shades of color ranging from brown to black, some dry as dust and others wet and slimy. The fence behind him is faded and weathered but still standing, just like him.
Covered in snow and huddled so close together, these two bikes look like something from a dream, much more magical than usual, or are they just as magical as usual but I just don’t normally notice, don’t recognize the beauty of their shape, can’t see beyond their utility, don’t really see them until one cold morning when they are covered in white and the street lamp highlights them like a display in an art gallery, while the moon turns the snow just beyond this circle of light a ghostly lavender blue. In this moment, they look as if they will melt entirely as soon as the sun comes out, are suddenly somehow mortal.