Roadside Survey

Kicked the kickstand down against cracked concrete. The silence broke only when my boots hit the gravel. Over by the dead pump station, a torn paper highway map was caught in the wire fencing, flapping in short snaps. I walked over, freed it from the barb, and spread it flat across the warm hood of an abandoned toolbox. Creased edges. Faded red routes. Traced the eastern ridge with one bared knuckle. There is a mountain pass twelve miles out, rocky and unpaved. Folded the map in four, wedged it securely behind the motorcycle's headlamp bracket. Good enough for the ride.