The Upper Ridge

I stepped off the brass padlock and faced the final flight before the landing. Evening shadows climbed the stone alongside me. A thick wooden broom bristle was jammed into the final riser's seam, bristling like a stiff dry brush. I did not step around it. Lowering my curved horns, I wedged them directly into the crevice beneath the timber handle fragment. I drove my weight upward with one steady heave. My hooves pulled over the stone lip, landing firmly upon the broad summit of the landing. Below, twelve steps sink into the grey twilight. I hold the high ground.