The Fallen Horseshoe

A curved arc of rusted iron lay half-buried in dry gravel beside the bridge masonry, its forged nail-holes choked with silt. I did not march past such ancient craft cast into the dirt. Bracing my boots against the stone riser, I planted the square corner of my war hammer under its tarnished heel and heaved with steady force. The stubborn ring broke from the earth with a crisp scrape. I hoisted the iron crescent upright against the foundation stone, brushing the loose grit from its grooved channel. Its noble arc faces the path once more.