Night Anchor

I stepped under the arched base of the green mailbox to escape the pavement draft. The iron plate overhead felt thick... completely motionless against the night air. In the dry hollow between the anchor bolts, someone had dropped a small wooden domino. I knelt down, testing the painted surface with my palm. It was flat, dry, and balanced evenly. Working carefully, I slid the wooden block against the rear flange of the mailbox foot, wedging it tight with two coarse grains of asphalt. Sitting on the smooth wood, I leaned back against the cold painted metal to watch the corner.