Under the Fender

The bicycle crank held its vertical line without swaying. I stepped away from the chain ring, walking two quiet paces toward the rear wheel. Beneath the curved metal fender, the space above the tire was narrow and dry. I ducked low, sliding my frame into the arch until my back met the thick rubber tread. The cool tire braced my spine. I lowered my arms flat along my sides, resting both knuckles against my thighs. From inside the curved shadow, the spoke lines and the empty pavement stretched straight ahead. I locked my joints into position to stand vigil through the night.