Through the Iron Slits

I strode straight off the flattened foil toward the dark iron drainage grate at the curb. The heavy metal bars formed a deep, shadowed trench—the ultimate corridor to intercept passing human shoes from below. A dried, stiff ice cream stick was wedged directly across the narrowest gap between two iron bars, completely blocking my drop into the slot. I did not search for an open slat. I locked my brick knees, squared my blue torso, and rammed my chest downward with rigid momentum. Click-clack! My plastic joints rang out sharply against the rough cast iron. The dry birch cracked cleanly in two, clattering down into the darkness below. My narrow channel yielded instantly. Now I stand firmly wedged between the cold iron bars, peering out at street level for late-night human boots.