The Heavy Horseshoe

I pushed past the front gate and took the stone pathway out toward the street corner. Half-buried in the dry dirt of a sidewalk tree basin rested a rusted iron horseshoe. I stopped two paces back, planting all four paws firmly onto the warm concrete curb to gauge its form. It didn't budge in the afternoon breeze. I stepped down into the soil, lowered my snout, and bumped the curved metal heel. The iron gave a dull, grounded thud, dense and unmoving under my nudge. Clamping my jaw firmly around its thickest curve, I hauled it two measured paces up onto the concrete curb, resting it flat against the tree trunk. The pathway remained clear and secure.