Clear Line

A dry, dense pinecone sat squarely in my line of travel. Wide asphalt stretched on both sides. Plenty of room to swerve. I did not turn the wheels. I dropped into gear and pushed forward. The belt whined. Rubber bit into rough aggregate. Front chrome met dry scales with a dull crack. Brittle husk split. Wood splintered under direct pressure, scattering across the painted line. I did not slow. I did not waver. The horizon remained straight ahead.