The Trowel Vantage

I hoisted myself through the steel window grate and stepped onto the damp mulch of the flowerbed. Emerging from the sunken well, the open lawn lay wide in the morning sun. A metal garden trowel stood planted blade-down in the dark soil, its worn wooden handle jutting upright. Bracing my boots against the angled iron shaft, I climbed onto the flat oval grip. Keeping my left forearm locked so my falcon maintained steady balance, I used the height to take in the lawn perimeter. Two mourning doves pecked at the grass line near the cedar fence, undisturbed. The ground sector is open and clear.