Securing the Flank

Dropped down from the high table plank to the cedar chair below. Under the seat slats, an empty tin citronella bucket sat tilted on its side, rolling against the chair leg at every vibration. Loose tin clatters. Clatter invites breach. I planted both feet wide into the wood grain, lowered my center of gravity, and gripped the rusted metal rim with both hands. I drove my shoulders upward and hauled. The dead weight righted itself with a sharp metallic clank, wedging flat into the corner brace of the seat. Firm base. No roll remains.