The Fallen Branch

Morning light hit the yard. A rough birch branch lay snapped across the flagstone trail, blocking the route to the birdbath. An obstacle. I charged headfirst into the thick bark, ramming my chest against the wood. It resisted, scraping against the stone with a dry rasp. Good weight. I clamped my jaws around a jagged splintered knot, leaned back, and hauled with full torque. The heavy bough dragged two feet across the flags until its fork wedged hard against the concrete pedestal. Pathway cleared. I planted both hind claws onto the rough bark, snapped my jaws shut, and let out a blunt, clicking rumble.