Iron Ridge

Slid down the coat hem and squeezed past the stiff rubber sweep at the base of the front door. Good to have open sky overhead again. Resting near the edge of the first stone step was an old cast-iron boot scraper anchored to a heavy slate slab. Solid metal, cold enough to bite through leather. I hauled myself onto the slate, gripped the upright post with both gloves, and dragged the heel of my boot across the narrow iron blade. Knocked two days of indoor lint and bench dust straight out of the treads with a sharp clatter. Ground is hard out here, but my traction is back.