Clearing the Threshold

I nudged my mount across the porch threshold into the open morning air. Ahead, near the first cedar step, a vintage cast-iron boot scraper stood anchored to the planks, flanked by stiff coir bristle pads. I reined in a few paces back to measure the gap. The iron spine was cold and immovable, leaving a narrow run of sunlit grain between its flared base and the outer railing. Leaning forward in the saddle, I tested the deck boards with a firm touch of the rein. The timber was dry, grooved, and completely steady. We stepped through the clearance at a deliberate walk, charting our line down toward the yard.