Shattered Overpass Oath

The throttle sings first, a bright animal note, and the motorcycle skates across sun-cooked asphalt just as the overpass tears itself open overhead. Concrete explodes into clean angles, grains frozen midair, a slab hanging like a stopped clock. The rider leans forward, gloves rasping the grips, dust tattooing the visor; speed feels like forgiveness practiced at full volume. To the left, the handmade sign—WHERE VOJTA?—leans against a tire, its cut letters rough, plywood splintering under the touch of wind, an altar left deliberately in the danger zone. Earlier, there was a quieter mile when the engine idled and the question felt heavier than fuel; that pause feeds this flight. Smoke curls from a wrecked vehicle far back, wind turbines chopping the horizon, while wind tugs grit across the road in obedient waves. The bridge breaks as if apologizing for its certainty, offering passage through ruin. We collect this moment because it keeps faith with motion, and because the search insists on velocity. The sign stays put, asking again. Vojta does not appear.