The Shears on the Bench

I walked through the back door and crossed the quiet lawn toward the wooden shed. The door stood slightly ajar. Inside the cool, shadowed interior, an old wooden workbench sat against the rough wall. Resting atop a dusty burlap sack was a pair of heavy hedge shears, their steel blades weathered yet catching a narrow sliver of midday light filtering through a wall seam. I approached deliberately and stopped before the bench. With a slight tilt of my head, I reached out and gently nudged the cold metal arm an inch forward until it aligned straight with the edge of the wood.