The Iron Buckle

My boot came down against an exposed cedar root on the mossy slope. Half-buried in dark pine needles lay a weathered leather strap fitted with a square brass-and-iron buckle. I paused, exhaling a slow, measured breath behind my mask, and rested the blade of my machete against my thigh. Leaning down, I hooked two fingers beneath the corroded tongue of the buckle and pulled with deliberate, even force. The rotted leather parted silently, leaving the solid metal square free in my palm. I scraped away the damp silt with the side of my thumb, feeling the dense, pitted weight. Satisfied, I tucked the cold hardware into my jacket pocket and continued forward.