Clear Line of Sight

Stood watch on the iron landing until mid-afternoon, but the view through the second-floor window frame was blocked by an abandoned, sun-bleached painter's rag stuck in the rusted sash. It flapped stiff in the crossdraft, cutting off my sightline into the brick recess. I stepped onto the narrow stone sill, braced both boots against the mortar, and locked both hands onto the stiff canvas. Dropped my hips and hauled backward with full leverage. The dried paint cracked like brittle slate, and the cloth ripped free in one solid heave. Shoved the scrap flat under the iron tread. Path across the window sill is clear.