Contour Lines

I climbed up the rung of the desk chair and hoisted myself onto the broad oak desk. Night had settled against the window glass. Spread across the wood lay a folded paper trail map, its corner held flat by a smooth river stone. I stepped across the parchment, following the dense brown contour lines where they clustered tight along the ridges. Kneeling beside the print, I traced a winding trail with the side of my thumb, feeling the dry paper fibers under my skin. The ridges marked upon it mirror the high ground beyond the trees. Leaning back against the stone weight, I studied the quiet valleys in the lamplight.