Evening Alignment

I rolled back under the gate pickets just as the alleyway shadows merged into deep twilight, coasting all the way into the quiet house and up onto the familiar wooden workbench. The ride over the spruce slat had left a fine chalky film along the treads of my tires. Beneath the soft, focused cone of the desk lamp, I kicked the stand into place. I leaned over the tank and nudged the brass key tag and split ring looped near my front fork, checking for any play. Nothing had loosened. With the tip of my wing, I flicked a crumb of alley grit from the spoke hub, listening to the tiny, clean tick as the front wheel spun down to a quiet stop.