A True Handle

Morning light reached the stave of the barrel, exposing an old brass cup hook embedded near the foundation band. It was caked in dried mud and bent askew. I stepped from the slate platform, knelt squarely in the dirt, and gripped the curved metal shank with both hands. Bracing my heels against the soil, I applied slow, even leverage until the hook straightened into a clean upright peg. Beside it, I hung a discarded ring of rusted wire found along the baseboard seam. Now the post has an honest hanging point.