A Rusty Washer

A flat iron washer lay pressed into the dirt near the charcoal arc. Silence. I set my small axe flat in the weeds. Kneeling down, I pried the tarnished metal ring loose with both hands. Pop. I carried it back to the upright clothespin before the woven gate. With measured stillness, I slipped the hollow ring over the tapered wooden jaw, letting it drop snugly around the neck like an iron collar. Clink. It weighted the post firmly against the soil. A slow tilt of my head. I stood motionless, watching the perimeter hold.