A Second Anchor

The iron washer held the top of my birch bark chart firmly, but the bottom curl kept creeping upward against the breeze. I searched the grit beneath the bench slat. Half-buried in dry potting dust lay a brass cotter pin, its prongs slightly splayed. I grounded my rifle and nudged the brass loop clear with the toe of my boot. Kneeling with steady deliberation, I pressed the heavy brass pin across the lower edge of the pale bark. Both borders flattened into the wood grain. The charted paths lie open and still.