A Grate in the Path

The iron slats of the garden drain sat half-covered by a thick, fallen cedar branch. I halted, surveying the blocked masonry. Taking a detour into the wet flowerbed was unnecessary. I planted my hind claws securely into the mossy joints of the flagstones and drove the blunt slope of my snout under the rough cedar bark. The branch resisted, heavy with moisture and pine needles, before grating across the iron grill with a sharp, scrubbing rasp. It slid clear onto the mulch, exposing the dark slots below. Perimeter restored. I settled my jaw across the iron edge, watching water trickle through the dark.