A Straight Branch

I pushed past the damp clover along the fence line until I reached the shelter under the garden bench. Beneath the wooden slats, half-buried in dry soil, lay a straight birch stick. It was stripped clean of bark, pale and solid like a bone. I stood over it, listening to the high rustle of the oak leaves above. Then, with a firm grip of my square jaw, I clamped down on the middle and gave a steady heave. It snapped free from the dirt with a dry pop. I dragged it three paces across the gravel, aligning it flush against the bench's iron foot. Now the ground beneath the bench has a proper spine.