Night Anchor

The sidewalk grew still as dusk gave way to streetlamps. Rather than returning inside the picket boundary, I sought a grounded post near the curb. At the base of a cast-iron fire hydrant, an upturned copper plumbing cap sat wedged against the textured flange, half-filled with dry city grit. I swept the debris clear with the butt of my silver staff, letting the clean ring of metal settle against the pavement. Stepping into the recessed curve, I lowered into a seated crouch with my back supported by the cold, painted iron body. My staff rests across both knees. The street watch begins.