You know what I'm talking about.
She's little, not much over five years old, pedaling by on that bike likely
just emancipated from training wheels. She has golden ringlets of hair that hang and bounce, untroubled by the fetter of helmet and strap. A matching outfit so bright bees should rightly expect hidden nectar. She is radiant like sunshine, warmth a byproduct of her passing.
A neighbor waves. A butterfly flutters.
Me and my BB gun.
Cute girls on bicycles . . . eh.