The wind whistles in my pink ears.

It whips through my hair,

as I soar down the rocky hill on my bike.

I race past 

the Sycamores, Maples, and Oaks.

the wind picks up their yellow and red

and carries them into the forest.

I zoom along,

until something catches my eye-

a piece of a balloon,

 hidden in the head-sized leaves of a Sycamore,

a pink one, faded from age 

but still distinguishably pink.

I pack it away in my backpack

and ride back to the house.

Then I take out the piece 

and walk over to the trash can.

It’s a pity that something 

of so much meaning to a little kid in the past

is now nothing but trash to me.

Will stuff such as my bike and backpack soon be nothing but trash, as well?