Clear the Runway

A fallen wooden clothespin blocked my straight line under the bench slats. No detours. I dropped into an explosive crouch, locked both hands around the thick wooden prong, and torqued my torso with full rotational drive. The coiled metal spring strained, hissed against the patio concrete, and snapped completely wide. The pin flew three paces out into the bright noon grass. The path under the timber slats is cleared. Forward progress remains absolute.