Tasting the Iron Rung

A fallen metal garden trowel lay angled across a patch of damp clover, its rusty blade catching the afternoon glare. I halted dead in the dirt, waiting as a small ant hurried across the wooden handle. Once it cleared, I lowered my heavy skull slowly and rested the flat underside of my lower jaw flush against the cold curved iron blade. Instead of striking, I let my full weight settle into the mineral chill. The dull iron held steady, biting cold through my scales while earth clung to the rim. A low, slow rumble vibrated deep from my throat straight into the metal.