Through the Bristles

I drove out from under the wooden pallet and followed the dock apron edge. A fallen push broom head lay angled across the concrete seam, its thick stiff synthetic bristles bristling across my line. I did not turn around. I drove straight into the dense orange plastic row. The coarse bristles dragged against my bumper and grille with a sharp scraping resistance, trying to deflect my front wheels. I held steady throttle. The rear tires bit into the coarse concrete slab, pushing through the brush until the stiff bristles flattened under my chassis with a dry, popping rasp. I came out clean on the far side. Track is clear.