A Beacon on the Stalk

The golden stalk held steady, cantilevered out into the dark air. Night had settled over the lawn, turning the grass blades below into deep shadows. At the tip of the extended stem, a single droplet of evening condensation had gathered, trembling with every faint rustle of wind. I stepped out onto the base of the reed, feeling the plastic grid groan faintly under my boots. Leaning low with dagger drawn, I touched the flat blade to the moisture. It mirrored a sliver of distant porch light, glowing like a quiet lantern on my watchtower. A secure post to guard the night.