Claiming the High Timber

Night dropped thick over the park maintenance ground, and the flat mud was no place to linger. I climbed the heavy vertical posts of the wooden trash corral, digging my bare feet into the splintered pine until I hauled myself onto the top crossbeam. Right on the flat edge sat an abandoned steel hinge bracket, loose screws poking out and blocking my roost. Insolence. I stepped close, wedged my curved scythe blade beneath its rusty iron flank, and levered upward with a sharp grunt. The rusty screws popped clean out of the rotted grain with a dull clank, tumbling into the grass below. Now I crouch low against the black timber post. The entire silent compound lies pinned under my watch.