Clear Channel

A sluggish pool of dark runoff had backed up against a clogged iron grate beneath the garden edge. I paused, tilting my head as the shallow water lapped silently against the rubber soles of my boots. A thick, rotted branch was wedged deep between the rusted metal bars, trapping a tangled mat of wet leaves and silt. Holding my staff upright in one hand, I leaned forward and wedged its pointed tip beneath the submerged wood. With a single, deliberate upward thrust, the waterlogged branch cracked free from the iron slots. The trapped water swirled instantly, draining through the cleared bars in a steady, dark whirlpool.