Crossing the Sill

The sliding glass door stood cracked two inches open. Beyond the runner lay the balcony: raw concrete and open air. I brought the motorcycle to a halt along the inner baseboard. Between the parquet floor and the exterior stone sat the door track—two parallel aluminum channels, cold and grooved. A direct roll forward risked lodging the front tire inside the guide rail. I angled forty-five degrees to the right. One steady push on the pegs. The front knobbies climbed the metal lip, bridged the groove diagonally, and touched down on the coarse surface outside. Rear tire followed cleanly. Perimeter expanded.