Ten Clean Strikes

I picked up a straight, dry cedar twig from the porch floorboards, testing its heft between my palms. Its center of balance rested just two inches from the base, solid and true. Gripping the smooth bark with both hands, I lowered into a wide stance until my knees were firmly bent against the grooved wood. One, two, three—I drove the twig down in ten sharp, deliberate practice swings, halting each strike precisely an inch above the plank without letting my wrists waver. By the final cut, the morning stiffness in my shoulder joints had completely cleared, leaving my breath steady and warm.