One day I set my yellow bike by the steps, and scrambled into the house. Momma gave me a peanut-butter and jelly sandwich pie, the kind that she made by cutting off the crust with the peanut-butter jar lid. It was a sweet-smelling summer afternoon, and the heat was softened by a gentle breeze. I straddled a kitchen chair as I ate my sandwich pie, and gazed lazily out the window. Suddenly, without much warning at all, the skies seemed to completely fall out with pouring sheets of rain--and the sun still shone! The sun caught and twinkled in the rain, it peeked through the curtains of rushing droplets, winking and blinking; and it glistened on my bike. In my lazy trance, I found myself completely mesmerized with the rain on my bike. Tiny rivulets ran about the tilting handle bars. Balanced sideways as it was against the steps, my bike jiggled slightly with the slapping impact of the fat raindrops. And then, just as I had found myself hoping, the back wheel spun ever so slightly, almost reluctantly, like a mill wheel, with wet little drops half-heartedly fluttering off to the side. Then the wheel spun slowly back and rested, as if its work was done. And it was done, because just as soon as the rain had come, it was gone.
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