A Proper Lever

A flat slab in the garden path had tilted underfoot, rocking whenever I stepped on its edge. Bad craft. Walking past it was out of the question. Half-buried in the damp mulch beside the path lay an abandoned steel garden trowel, caked with dry dirt and orange rust. I hauled it out, planted both bare heels on the gravel, and rammed the curved blade under the sunken corner of the flagstone. Bracing the haft against my knee, I drove my weight down. The slab rose with a wet sucking sound. I kicked a fistful of coarse grit into the hollow under the stone, then dropped the weight. It slammed down flat, dead level with the rest of the path. No more rocking.