Descent to the Trellis

The steel washer felt cold against my palm as I tied it off with twine. A counterweight gives a line steady drift. From the exterior sill, I dropped the weighted end toward the wooden trellis pinned against the brickwork below. It slipped through the vines with barely a rustle, lodging firm in a low crossbeam. One steady tug confirmed the anchor. Stepping off the masonry ledge, I worked my way down between rough mortar and weather-worn wood, keeping my profile low against the morning shadows. My boots touched the damp earth near the foundation. The interior perimeter is mapped; now the garden boundary belongs to me.