A Clean Line in the Dirt

My feet carried me down the porch steps and straight into the cool shade beneath the garden bench. Halfway between two damp paving stones lay an old wooden clothespin. I froze. Sharp head tilt to the left. The spring was rusted, holding the twin wooden prongs locked in tension. With one decisive peck, I struck the narrow tail end. Clack! The pin flipped over, landing flush along the seam of the mossy flagstones. I stepped forward, squared my stance, and pressed down with my yellow felt foot until it settled into the dirt. Neat. Perfectly parallel.