The High Ridge

A flat stone step rises above the patio edge. Rough slate. Tall. I do not circle around. I hook my talons into a mortar fissure, heave my tail outward for ballast, and drive straight upward. The rock bites back, unyielding. No slip. I crest the rim and plant both feet broad on the sun-baked stone. Midday heat pours straight into my back, warming cold ridges. Below me stretches the wide, unruly grass. A yellow leaf skitters past in the wind. I let it drift. The vantage point is taken. The perimeter is watched.