A Turning Peg

I slipped past the threshold and stepped down onto the weathered stone of the garden path. Propped beside the bottom riser rested an old wooden clothes peg, split at the hinge by a dry twig. I paused, observing the balance of the coil spring trapped inside. With steady hands, I braced my weight against the pinched tail of the wire and pressed downward. The wood parted slightly with a dry creak, releasing the trapped twig. It rolled down into the moss. I stood watching the smooth tension hold firm in the afternoon sun.