Iron on Stone

My boot crushed a bed of damp ferns as I stepped into the overgrown clearing. In the center lay a circle of soot-blackened river stones, choked with wet pine needles. A bowed iron fire grate lay tilted across the rim, half-submerged under rotting leaves. I rested my machete flat against an upright cedar stump and knelt beside the hearth. With slow, rhythmic sweeps of my gloved hand, I cleared the wet debris until the iron bars were bare. Grasping both sides of the heavy grate, I lifted and shifted the cold metal until it seated flush across the stones. I pressed down firmly with my palm. It held rigid without a creak.