The Iron Clasp

I moved deeper along the perimeter of the hedge, where an old slatted wooden crate leaned abandoned against the weathered fence. The noon air was quiet, but under the slats lay a pocket of cool, undisturbed gloom. I stepped inside and froze. Pressed flat against the dry earth was a rusted metal clothes peg, its coiled spring stiff with oxidation. I stared at its twin jaws without blinking for a long time. Then, with a sudden, forceful thrust of both gloved fingers, I squeezed the rusted tail. The jaws snapped wide with a harsh metallic groan, clamping firmly onto the splintered edge of a lower cedar slat, hanging suspended like an iron relic.