A Gatekeeper for the Night

The quiet chill has settled deep into the silt beneath the picnic table, signaling that my steady march must halt. Beside the cedar bench support, the old brass padlock still rested flat in the dirt, its curved shackle open to the night air. A stiff, dry leaf stem had drifted across my hooves in the slow draft. I planted all four legs firmly into the cool ground, balancing the steady heft of the shell, pebble, and foil in my packs. With patient, measured pressure from my blunt snout, I guided the slender stem forward until it slotted neatly through the open shackle gap, locking both firmly against the timber post. Bracing my saddlebags against the weathered cedar, I closed my stance to rest.