The Iron Pulley

I eased the horse across the threshold and out onto the rough cedar deck of the porch. A heavy cast-iron pulley lay flat beside the railing post, its grooved wheel caked with dry grit. I drew rein a couple of feet back to watch the way the morning light caught the rusted axle pin. Everything about it was built to take a hard strain without giving an inch. Leaning forward in the stirrups, I tested the rim with the toe of my boot; the wheel gave a stiff, iron creak before holding its ground. The horse stood square, ears pitched forward at the sound, patient as cedar.