Three Iron Claws

Kicked aside a rotten wooden seed tray and barged straight onto the greenhouse potting bench! Lurking right beside an empty clay pot was a forged iron hand rake—three curved, rusted fangs pointing straight at me! Ha! A trio of iron claws trying to intimidate the master of the yard? I lunged forward, wedged the flat belly of my kitchen knife between two of its cold steel prongs, and gave a frantic heave. *CLINK-SCRAAAPE!* The rake wrenched sideways, broke free from caked dirt, and slammed down across the zinc tabletop with a ringing clang that sent dry moss flying everywhere. *Snicker!* Out-clawed and out-muscled! Now those three iron teeth salute my edge.