The Iron Cotter Pin

Past the pipe crossing, a rotting cedar crate lay smashed into the weeds. Among the splintered slats, a thick, split iron cotter pin caught the midday light. It was caked in black grease and gritty sand. I dropped onto one knee and worked both thumbs under its looped eye, levering the heavy steel out from the damp wood. The metal had cold, unbending heft. Using a rough river cobble, I scraped the old grime from its prongs until the dull grey iron showed bare. I drove the straight leg firmly into a fissure in the nearest crate plank, anchoring a solid iron cleat into the wood. The marker stands immovable.