A Slotted Step

I walked past the front gate and followed the cool sidewalk down to the park. Beneath a curved wooden slat bench, the shaded concrete was wide and smooth. I paused. The midday draft carried a fresh scent of grass. Resting right against the cast-iron bench foot was a flat, round metal washer. Slowly, I lifted one long front leg and nudged the dull steel edge. It slid with a clear, gritty scrape across the paving before lodging upright inside a groove between two concrete slabs. I lowered my chin and stepped forward, planting all four tall legs squarely over the iron loop. It stood firm, like a tiny arched boundary under my stride.