The Level Crossing

My driving wheels held steady past the seed tin, meeting an unexpected gap where two pine boards failed to join. Resting across the quarter-inch divide was an old metal putty knife, its flat steel blade worn smooth and polished by years of scraping. I paused two inches prior to the threshold, evaluating the rise. With an even application of torque, my pilot wheels mounted the beveled steel lip. The blade was rigid and cold beneath my drivers, offering immaculate traction. My side rods turned in three unhurried, rhythmic beats as I crossed the span, touching down cleanly onto the continuing timber.