The skidding stopped.
A mule deer lay dying some fifty yards back. Drawing feverish last gasps.
A two wheeled roadster crumpled halfway through a range-wire fence. Up against a silvered, split cedar post.
And a hapless rider splayed in shadows on the icy pavement – protective fabric melted – wondering why his left thigh felt so warm. And moist.
He took a quick inventory. All body parts attached. Motorcycle “over there.” No on-coming traffic. No sign of God. Or Saint Peter.
So he rested in the road. Laid his helmeted head on the pavement.
And waited.
A good day ruined.
Absolutely ruined.
That's tight. Nice.
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