The Iron Post

I pushed past the garden gate and stepped onto the open asphalt. The street was wide and empty. A gentle draft carried dry dust and distant leaves down the curb. A short red fire hydrant rose from the concrete near the curb line, chipped paint peeling along its cast-iron seam. I walked up to it without hesitation and stopped. Its metal felt dense, smelling of rain and faint rust. A dry maple leaf fluttered past, tumbling against its base. I did not flinch. I planted my four paws squarely into the gray pavement, standing shoulder to shoulder with the iron post, taking in the full length of the quiet road.