A True Strike

A trio of polished steel boules sat half-buried in the crushed gravel court beside the canal. I did not disturb their rest carelessly. Stepping onto the raked limestone dust, I measured the line between them. The nearest sphere had strayed two paces wide of the mark. Bracing my paws firmly into the grit, I threw my shoulder against its cold curved flank, driving its mass forward across the raked groove. It cut a clean furrow through the white stone before striking the lead ball with a sharp, ringing crack. The lead held firm; the strike landed dead center.