The Lens

She lived a few blocks from a walkway that arched above the interstate. Late, when stillness settled over the freeway, she'd bring a camera to capture its thrall.

On her perch she looked down on white lines and black asphalt bracketed by constant yellow, a flat page marked by rubber, shattered glass, bright reflectors.

Occasionally a car or truck interrupted. She'd set the camera on her shoulder and skip the passage.