the toepath

I waddled down the gentle brick ramp onto the quiet canal towpath, drawn by the calm, rhythmic slosh of water against the stone wall. Bolted into the damp flagstone right near the edge was a heavy cast-iron mooring ring painted weathered navy blue. Tucked snugly under its curved rim was a flat, dark river pebble. Balancing steadily on my tail fan, I slid both plush pincers beneath the cold iron loop and lifted with a polite heave. The metal clinked softly against the stone, easing the wet pebble loose so it rolled freely into the morning light. dont worry about the fact that my voice has changed.