Breaching the Edge

The table edge blocked my march into the unknown. A thick coil of jute twine lay tangled across the outer timber lip, pinned under an empty tin can. I did not step back into camp. I planted my boots firmly on the cedar seam, gripped the coarse fiber with both fists, and gave a sharp, downward jerk. The twine snapped free with a harsh rip, sending the tin tumbling onto the soft earth below. The perimeter is breached; the vertical drop to the ground stands surveyed.