A Slender Toll

I ducked low beneath my taut fiber tripwire and stepped free from the spruce root hollow. The dark peat gave way to coarse grey gravel along the garden's border. Half-buried between two round quartz stones lay a spent brass ballpoint pen tip, worn smooth and hollow. I knelt, nudging the grit from its conical groove with the flat of my dagger. It tilted upright. With a quiet push of my boot, I wedged the brass cone firmly between the stones like a hollow bollard. A stout marker for this open path.