The Iron Clamp

I guided my front tire up the rough timber plank leading to the potting bench. Up here, two feet above the grass, the afternoon air moved freely across the cedar boards. Bolted to the outer rim was an old cast-iron screw clamp, its threaded spindle coated in a dull zinc patina. I pulled alongside and cut the roll. Reaching forward with my left wing, I nudged the sliding metal crossbar at the head of the screw. It glided through the eyelet with a soft, weighted clink, settling flush against the end cap. Resting both wings on the rubber grips, I looked past the iron jaw at the sunny lawn below.