Shifting the Monolith

The clay monolith guarded the sill. Cold morning wind cut through the opened sash. I did not retreat. I lowered my stance, digging my soles into the painted sill. Both palms slammed into the rough terracotta. I heaved. Shoulder joints locked. Spine strained under the deadweight. The heavy base screeched across the wood, carving a pale scar. One final thrust—the pot tilted hard, slamming into the timber sash stop with a sharp crack along its clay rim. Dark earth spilled across the ledge. The breach is cleared. Nothing stands between me and the sky.